Sweet Caroline
by sbgrrl
Summary: S1, gen. Dean and Sam investigate a death on a small college campus. They struggle to solve the mystery and keep anyone else from getting killed, including themselves. Hurt!Sam and Hurt!Dean - I'm an equal opportunity whumper, mostly. Now complete.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: The Winchesters and everything about them do not belong to me. I've taken them out to play and promise to return them in semi-decent shape when I'm done. OCs and the story plot do belong to me. Small victories. ;)_

_A/N: Thanks to LdyAnne for the alpha, typo-spotting and encouragement. Kudos to Meg for the beta!_

**_Sweet Caroline  
Prologue_**

Meghan Schmidt couldn't believe she'd let herself get talked into playing the stupid game in the first place.

Everyone knew taking the dare was pretty much the same thing as admitting the truth. It was, like, written in stone or something. She might as well have spilled her guts instead of being put through this. No, she contradicted herself right away; there were some things too embarrassing to admit out loud. Because of it, she was going to miss the rest of the night because of it. She thought maybe she still had time to renege and go for the truth option. For a fraction of a second, the thought was actually serious in her head. Then she regained her senses. No. It wasn't going to happen. She was all for dorm bonding, but none of her friends needed to know _that_ particular tidbit about her. It was no one's business, thanks very much.

"No chickening out," Iris said, laughing at her from behind the wheel. "We'll totally know if you blow it off and go to the hotel for the night."

"Yeah, yeah. You guys have my cell phone. I can't call anyone and there's no way I'm walking all that way by myself in the middle of the night," Meghan said.

She opened the car door, slid out and shut it quietly behind her. Spring had come early this year, but the March air was chill, making her wish she'd worn an extra layer or two. Meghan shook her head, turned around and leaned down to the open window.

"Try not to have too much fun without me. Think about how cold and miserable I'm going to be out here."

"We'll see you at Food Service around 7:30," Iris said. She lowered her voice and followed with a more dramatic, "Don't let the dead people bite."

There was more giggling as the window slid up. Then her roommate's silver Honda Civic pealed away. Meghan stared after the car, hoping her friends would reconsider and turn around and come back for her. After a few minutes it was apparent she was on her own. She gazed upon her night's temporary lodging with a glum eye. At least her friends had agreed to let her bring a blanket and pillow, flashlight and a thermos of hot cocoa. It was just cold enough that having something warm to drink would help make her outdoor overnight stay pass more quickly, or at least more comfortably.

Summit Cemetery was well buffered from campus and from the town by a fence of tall pines, which rustled and whistled slightly in the breeze. Calvary was actually a tiny bit closer to the school, nudged right next to Summit, but Gwen had insisted Summit was bigger and more atmospheric. That was all it had taken to convince the rest of the girls, who had laughed in encouragement. Whatever. To Meghan, a cemetery was a cemetery. She shivered and pulled the blanket and pillow closer to her. There was no way she was going very far in. She thought cemeteries were really creepy in the daytime; now she knew they were even worse at night.

Her imagination was already starting to kick in, and she'd just gotten there. She sighed. The moon was a tiny sliver, casting little light on her surroundings. Her heart started beating faster, eyes widening as if that would allow her to see more than the indistinct shapes of grave markers. The only thing that would make it worse, she thought, was if it were foggy. It would be the perfect scary movie setting.

Though she had the flashlight, Meghan was reluctant to use it. She doubted anyone would see her out there, but trespassing charges weren't something her parents would be happy about. Dealing with shitty small town cops wasn't exactly her idea of a good time, either. She trailed around the edges of the cemetery, looking for a place that might be somewhat acceptable to hunker down for the next six hours. She squinted, spotting a small stone bench not too far from the gated side entrance. She didn't know how she hadn't seen it right away. She moved quickly toward it. Her choice was between cold stone and damp earth, and as far as she was concerned, both sucked out loud. She'd have less chance of some creepy crawly or furry rodenty thing skittering on her if she were elevated a little, so in the long run the decision wasn't that tough.

She went over and cleared a few scattered leaves off the seat before sitting down. Meghan plopped the pillow at the edge, curling her legs up onto the bench. Coldness seeped into her hip and shoulder almost instantly. She shivered again, setting the thermos and flashlight down on the ground. She pulled the blanket up to her chin. The breeze picked up, making the trees sing instead of whistle. She brought her left hand close to her face and peered at her watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. Damn, it was going to be such a long night.

Meghan thought again about how no sane nineteen-year-old would play a kids' game like Truth or Dare with her floormates. She was paying the price for that bad decision now. She sighed. She was a broken record in her own head. Her friends were probably happy to get rid of her and her bad attitude. She knew she'd been a pill all night. She needed to get her mind off the stupidity of her situation, because it wasn't doing any good.

She tried to get more comfortable. After a moment, she decided the bench wasn't any worse than the nasty dorm mattress she had. She closed her eyes, reopening them a second later when the night noises around her seemed to get even louder and scarier. That was silly, of course. It was all in her mind and she knew it, but she also knew she wouldn't get any sleep.

Raising herself up on her left elbow, Meghan leaned down to retrieve the thermos. Her hand was only halfway to its destination when she heard it, a loud snap. Well, it seemed loud anyway, amid the softly rustling trees. It sounded like a twig or something. She froze, even stopped breathing for a second.

Nothing. No other sound came.

She shook her head, picking up the thermos. Unscrewing the cap, she was comforted by the sound of plastic on plastic. Iris had laughed her butt off when she'd seen the old Strawberry Shortcake thermos the first time, but it didn't matter. Meghan had found it at a garage sale when she was about three and had demanded her mother buy it for her. She didn't know why, but it made her feel happy then, and again every time she used it. Smiling to herself, happy even now in the cold misery, she poured a capful of cocoa and almost forgot she was in a spooky cemetery. The rich, chocolatey smell of cocoa helped disguise the dank odor of dead, wet leaves littered on the ground. She took a sip, wishing she had spiked it with peppermint schnapps. Any kind of liquor would do, for that matter.

A draft of air tickled the back of her neck, making her shiver so hard she nearly spilled the drink. The air almost felt like cold fingers. Heart pounding, she shifted around and looked behind her. Again, there was nothing out of the ordinary behind her, or anywhere. It was her overactive imagination getting to her again. Meghan knew she was playing into every stupid movie cliché out there.

"You're being an idiot," she chided herself, pulling the blanket tighter.

She should have brought a book or her latest knitting project. The cocoa wasn't going to help her avoid the freaked-out feeling very much. Not nearly enough. Not at all. She was left alone to her own already paranoid mental meanderings, and it had only been...she looked at her watch again...half an hour. Great. She just knew this was going to be the longest night ever. Words could not stress that enough.

Meghan tapped her fingernails against the red plastic cap, lifting it to her lips again. The cocoa was already lukewarm. She grimaced, flinging the remaining contents out onto the ground. The temperature around her seemed to drop a couple degrees. Shivering, she screwed the cap on the thermos before setting it back on the ground. And then something moved behind her again.

"Seriously, is anyone there?" she whispered, looking around. Her friends had probably come back after all, determined to scare the shit out of her. It was working. They could totally stop now. "You guys, it's not funny. Come out."

She got no response, but swore she caught movement out of the corner of her right eye. Meghan twisted around, noticing a smaller tree's branches swaying erratically, like someone had been hiding there and had darted off suddenly. She pressed her lips together and stood, staring at the area behind the bench with narrowed eyes.

"Iris? Gwen? Guys? Come on. This really isn't funny."

More sounds, definitely footsteps, came from behind her. That didn't make sense. If her friends were out there, they'd have been in front of her now that she'd twirled to find them. She spun back around, hoping to catch them in the act of dodging back into hiding. There was nothing, except more sounds that she was starting to think were all in her head anyway.

"Screw this," she muttered. "I'd like to see any of them stick it out all night."

She bent down to gather up her stuff. Her friend Randy didn't live too far off campus; she could coerce him into not saying anything about her chickening out. She'd sleep at his place and no one else would be the wiser.

That was when she saw a shape she couldn't mistake for a tree. It was a big black mass, too big to be any of her friends, and it looked solid. A million horrible thoughts flashed through her head, the worst of which had her hacked to pieces at the hands of a small town psycho. One of those strange religious people she saw around town, the ones that made the women only wear dresses and cover their hair with scarves.

She forgot all about her belongings, heading for the cemetery gate. When she got there, she discovered it was now closed. And locked. Meghan rattled the gate in frustration, glancing over her shoulder. The person or whatever looked like he had moved closer. Damnit, she should have grabbed the flashlight. She dashed back to the bench, fumbling around for it. Her hands shook like crazy.

"Stay...stay away from me," she called out, thinking she'd feel like an even bigger fool if she was imagining it or if her friends had rigged a practical joke.

Meghan flicked the flashlight on, no longer concerned about trespassing charges or stupid cops. She pointed it right at the figure, expecting something big and scary and, shit, who knew what else. She was even prepared to use the flashlight as a weapon. Except when she pointed it, the beam revealed nothing. She aimed the light over to the gate, finding it was open. She must have only thought she was at the gate before. She had really just been along the fence somewhere.

"Shit, Meggie, you're completely losing it."

She collapsed on the bench, indulging in a fit of relieved, nervous laughter. This bout of overactive imagination would be another thing she wouldn't reveal if she ever let herself get suckered into Truth or Dare on a boring Saturday night again, or, like, ever. She fingered the stitching on her pillow, the lure of Randy's house stronger than ever. She reached over to grab her stuff.

She froze in terror. The someone she _thought_ had been no one stood at the head of the bench, large, looming, dark and all the things she'd suspected right from the start. Meghan yelped and stood up quickly, heart beating so fast it actually hurt. The flashlight cut out. She threw it at the person. It produced a strange clanking sound, but the shape didn't shout in pain. It didn't utter a sound. It didn't move. She backed up a couple of steps. She looked up, feeling like she was moving in slow motion. She saw its eyes.

Meghan shrieked. She found her legs, starting to run, but she only got a few steps. In the back of her head, she thought about being a stupid victim in a cheesy horror movie as she fell, hard, onto the ground. Sudden, impossible heaviness on her legs pinned her in place. She kicked and wriggled and couldn't get away no matter how she struggled. The pressure rose slowly and unavoidably to her stomach, her chest. She could barely breathe anymore. A pervading sense of resignation, strange sadness, washed over her.

"No," she punctuated over and over with each waning breath, wishing she could scream.

Too quickly, she couldn't breathe at all. Her head fell to the ground. The last thing Meghan Schmidt saw was her treasured Strawberry Shortcake thermos, tucked underneath the stone bench. For the first and only time in her nineteen years of life, it didn't bring her happiness.

* * *

"I found a few things we could check out. There are reports of strange lights appearing at night in some fields outside of Mishawaka, Indiana."

"Nah, probably just fireflies. And if it's not, I doubt it's a life-threatening situation."

"How about this, then: In Douglas, Wyoming, authorities have received several emergency calls in the last few weeks, all to report the sighting of an abnormally large rabbit, possibly with antlers."

"We're not hunting wabbits, Elmer. Also, it's not life-threatening, so who cares?"

"Could be a jackalope, you know. Douglas was apparently the birthplace of that lore."

"I'm saddened but not surprised you know that. It could also be that someone watched _Harvey_ and wanted to have a little fun with people. We're still not hunting rabbits."

"_Harvey_? Really, you went there? Okay, moving on. Bizarre mutilated goats keep appearing around Clovis, New Mexico - sounds like it could be a chupacabra to me."

"No."

"Dean..."

"No, Sam. I swear I will never be tempted to find a chupacabra again. Frankly, I don't think they exist. People talk about those stupid things, but every time we try to hunt one it turns out to be some sicko with a goat fixation. We see enough weird shit as it is, do you really want to deal with a guy named Cletus and his overwhelming desire to screwa goat and then feel so bad about it he kills it? Bah ram ewe, Sam. Uh-uh."

"Ooookay, I can tell you feel strongly about it. Here we go: 'Mystery surrounds the death of nineteen-year-old Meghan Schmidt of Eden Prairie, who was found dead on Saturday morning. The University of Minnesota, Morris student was discovered just off campus, near a local cemetery. Cause of death has yet to be determined, but sources say there was no indication of assault.'"

"Samuel. Sam. _Sammy_. You always lead with the college co-ed story, you should know that."

"I take it you're voting for Minnesota."

"Oh, you betcha."


	2. Chapter 1

_**Standard disclaimer still applies. Bummer.**_

_Additional note: This story isn't serialized the way most is on this site - meaning, there won't be cliffies at every chapter end. I do adore cliffies, but the plot ran away with me on this one. There's a lot of mystery-building before the action really starts, so I really, really, really hope people don't get bored with that kind of thing! If so, no worries. You don't have to keep reading. I sure wish you would, though. ;)_

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 1**

Dean Winchester stared at the miserable stretch of road before him. It wasn't that he had some deep-seated hatred for Minnesota, or for the case at hand. On the contrary, he was all for investigating Meghan Schmidt's mysterious, untimely death. Given the other choices Sam had dug up, any sane guy would choose the college gig. Hello, was there a better place to have hundreds of pretty girls all in one location? Rhetorical. No, he thought, none of that bothered him. What he didn't like were the papers in Sam's hands.

"Man, I'm glad it's not winter," he said, transferring his gaze to the vast expanses of empty, ploughed fields on either side of the road. "Baby doesn't like snow."

Sam gave a muted snort, but didn't say anything. They fell back into the particular quiet that had lingered during the trip. Silence between them happened more often than not. Spending nearly every moment with someone, waking and sleeping, reduced the need for constant chatter, and neither of them were big talkers anyway. Well, he wasn't. Sam was more of a chick that way.

After months on the road together, the quiet on their cross-country drives had gone from awkward to comfortable. He knew Sam still didn't _really_ want to be hunting with him, though his brother had finally agreed there was more to it than avenging Jess and their mom. Sam did want to help people; he probably thought he was hiding his deeper, darker reasons for sticking around. Well, Dean wasn't going to be the one to tell him that wasn't the case. If Sam needed to think his motives for staying weren't written in his eyes every moment of the day, then Dean wasn't going to burst the bubble.

"Actually, I've heard it can snow here into spring," Sam said at last, reaching over to turn the radio up.

It was the third time Sam had raised the volume in the past ten miles. Goddamned emo college, public or country stations were the only things that tuned in out here in the sticks. None of those options made Dean happy. He clenched his jaw, taking an instant dislike to the song that came on after the annoying DJ stopped yapping.

"Sometimes the end of April even sees snow showers, so we could still run into it in March."

"Dude, you totally just jinxed us," Dean said. He reached over and turned the irritating music down two notches. "Nice."

"So you believe in jinxes but not chupacabras?" Sam turned the crap back up. "Now that I find hard to believe."

"It shouldn't really be that shocking." Dean turned the radio all the way off. "I've said it before. People talk about el freaking chupacabra, but no one's ever actually seen one. On the other hand, I got jinxed by a hoodoo priestess once and have the scars to prove it."

"Yes, because your jinx scars look different from your regular scars."

Sam turned the radio back on. From what Dean could tell some guy with a whiny voice was singing about some Japanese girl fighting big robots. He wondered how in hell the US was still a world power if its college students were rotting their brains with this stuff.

"Anyway, I didn't jinx anything," Sam said. "I was just saying it could happen, and we should be ready for it."

Dean grabbed a tape (any tape, he wasn't fussy at this point), shoved it into the deck and hit play. The soothing sounds of Motorhead replaced the grating indie pop. He instantly relaxed a little, but he saw Sam reach for the radio again. Oh, no. No, no, no. He batted Sam's hand away with enough force it was clear he meant business. The quiet drive had been nice until Sam had found the stupid station. After that, Dean had developed a near-headache feeling behind his right eye, with some queasiness to go with it. Not even the hilarious call letters, KUMM _(the only station that puts KUMM in your ears!)_, made it okay enough to actually listen to the crap. Sam gave a yelp, clutching at his wounded hand theatrically. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Dude, knock it off. I am not listening to that crap anymore," Dean said. "You know the car rule. I've let you get away with that for long enough."

"Hey, man, I was just listening to the college station to see if they would mention anything about the girl's death," Sam said. "They might hold a memorial service or something. It'd be a good place to talk to people."

"Oh." Now Dean felt like a jackass. Yet he also felt no compunction to stop the tape and put the crap back on. "Why didn't you just say that?"

Sam didn't answer him at first. Ah, shit, Dean knew that meant his little brother was upset. Things had been going so well. Dean braced himself, waiting for his brother to waylay him with some out of the blue emotional crap about Dean's insensitivity or whatever. It would undoubtedly end up making them talk about other Stuff. He wished he'd sucked it up and just let the bad music play on. Bad music beat talking about Stuff any day of the week.

"Actually, because it was kind of fun watching you freak out," Sam said. "You're so touchy about your music."

"You're hilarious." Dean could hear the damned smile in Sam's voice. He cranked Motorhead up and glared at Sam, who did indeed have a shit-eating grin on his face. It was all Dean had in him not to thwap the smile off the guy. "A real wisenheimer."

"Did you really just call me a wisenheimer? Whatever, Grandpa." Sam started laughing. "It's not my fault your buttons are so easy to push."

"Shut up or I'll…" Dean said, drew a complete blank, and fizzled with the finish, "…push your buttons."

Sam let out one last laugh at Dean's lame comeback, but did shut up for the rest of the trip. Morris, Minnesota was soon on the very flat horizon. Dean navigated through the blink-and-miss-it town, noting the biggest attraction on the main street seemed to be the Dairy Queen. Exciting. Campus was on the outskirts, part of town but separate enough to provide its own atmosphere. He drove the car slowly around the grassy mall in the center of the campus. Class must have just let out or something. There were people roaming the sidewalks and jaywalking across the narrow streets. Many of them stared, their attention drawn by the growl of the Impala's engine.

"The admissions office is in Behmler Hall. It closes at four," Sam said. "I see i…no, that's Blakely. There it is, up there."

"I just want to go on record by saying I still don't like this."

Going that extra step and enrolling was dangerous. One, he was too old. Two, he wasn't interested in higher education. Three, and more importantly than either of the first two, there was too much damned paperwork involved, a lot more than a simple credit card scam. More than insurance fraud, too. Mostly, his reason for not liking it was because this was Sam's area of expertise and his brother had gotten his hands dirty with it. He knew Sam didn't like the more fraudulent aspects of their life. Dean admitted it didn't thrill him to have Sam actively participate in them either. On rare occasions, he even felt twinges of guilt about the lying and stealing himself. Dean knew he couldn't protect his brother forever, but that didn't mean he'd ever stop wanting to try. Like if he could somehow keep Sam _normal_ it would be enough for him, too, that maybe Dean wouldn't need normal for himself.

"There's no fraternity house here we can wander into and fake our way through, Dean. Both the town and the college are small enough that people will take notice of us asking questions anyway. At least this way we can make it look like we belong here."

"Yeah," Dean said, but he remained unconvinced. "But we could have just been reporters again."

"The victim's been dead for over a week. Good reporters would have come and gone by now. And you know we'll break in after we're done and erase all evidence we were here." Sam flipped through the papers in his lap. "Well, evidence that our alter-egos were ever here. It's no big deal."

"Okay, okay."

Dean pulled the car into a 30-minute parking spot in front of Behmler Hall. The stares they drew kept multiplying, even though they hadn't gotten out of the car. Not that he could blame people. A hot car plus his irresistible good looks…it only made sense that they'd attract some gawkers. It might be pandemonium once he got out. Sam just might have been right about their usual methods not cutting it, though. What he knew about Midwesterners was that they were friendly on the outside, suspicious on the inside. He got out of the car, staring right back at onlookers. Damn, he was never going to pass for a college student. These kids were, well, they were kids. His discomfort grew as he waited for Sam to gather all the stuff and join him on the sidewalk.

"Hey, man, that's an awesome car," one of the kids said. "Real sick."

"Yeah, it's pretty," said the girl next to him. "But it probably uses a lot of gas. It doesn't really fit on a green campus."

_Win some, lose some_, Dean thought. It was too bad in this case the guy was on his side. He gave the girl his patented charm-the-pants-off-em grin anyway, just because. Her cheeks turned pink, and she looked at the ground. He took the opportunity to ogle her, also just because. She wasn't bad to look at – petite, tiny waist, nice rack – so he was inclined to overlook her being a tree hugger. He heard Sam clear his throat louder than was necessary, a clear call for attention. Dean glanced over to catch the tail end of his brother's death glare. Dean rolled his eyes. As far as he was concerned, Sam should have expected this. He wasn't going to turn himself off when surrounded by so many opportunities to appreciate the female of the species. That would be downright unnatural.

"Yeah, well," he said when the girl looked back up at him. "It fits me."

"Actually, it does," she agreed, blushing some more. It was her boyfriend's turn to roll his eyes. Sam's long lost mini-me. "Maybe we'll see you around?"

"Yeah, maybe. Hey, I'm new in town – maybe I could grab your name and number. I might need someone to, you know, show me how things are done around here."

That prompted Sam to clear his throat again. Wonder of wonders, Dean suddenly found the right motivation to get into his role as serious college student. He studiously ignored his brother while he also studiously input little Rosemary Carlson's number into his phone. He could feel Sam's (and the boyfriend's) annoyance escalating, so he dragged out the trite flirting with Rosemary for as long as he could. Sometimes being passive-aggressive was a nice change of pace.

"Come on, we need to get going," Sam said. "The office closes in half an hour."

"Bye, Rosemary," Dean said with a wink. "I hope I'll see you soon."

Rosemary blushed and waved, walking away. The guy Dean had no interest in knowing gave Dean a look that was almost lethal. Dean smiled, transferring his attention to Rosemary, and adding _nice ass_ to the list of positive attributes she possessed. He was starting to appreciate Morris, Minnesota.

Sam whapped him on the shoulder, hard, as soon as the pair was a few feet away.

"Dude, she looks like she's barely eighteen."

"And your point is? Eighteen is legal the last time I checked."

Sam snorted, one of his customized _I can't believe we're related_ snorts, before heading for the administrative building's door. Hey, that was one sentiment he and Sam shared about each other. Sometimes Dean wondered if Sam were a real human man, or some pod alien who only looked like a person. Dean trotted to catch up, grabbing the door just as it started to swing shut. Without the distraction of getting Rosemary's digits, his discomfort with this part of the case resurfaced. Just the smell of the building, paper and dust and _academia_, made him uneasy. Still, he followed Sam up two flights of stairs and toward a small line of students in front of a large window and counter. He nudged Sam when they got to the end of the line.

"Dean, if you say one more time that you don't like this, I might have to hurt you," Sam said, without looking at Dean.

Okay, then. Dean didn't say anything, just shrugged. Of course, Sam's threat was empty. Dean could take him down any day of the week, with one hand behind his back.

They waited in silence. It didn't take long for their turn at the window. Dean decided he'd remain quiet and let Sam do all the nerdy college talk. Though he hated they were doing this, he had complete faith Sam would make sure everything went fine. Since he wasn't needed for the fake enrollment process, he took the opportunity to survey the office layout and points of security. They'd need it later. He also kept an ear out for any conversations about the dead girl, but no one seemed to be talking about it.

"Hi, my name is Gregg Allman and this is my brother Duane."

Dean stiffened when he realized they were at the window, and that was Sam speaking. A second later, Sam's words clicked in Dean's brain. Man, he'd really fallen down on the job. Gregg and Duane Allman? He should have paid attention to Sam's choice of pseudonyms, because what he'd come up with was the worst they'd ever used. Really bad. At least his brother hadn't picked the friggin' Osmonds. The dour-looking, older woman behind the counter eyed Sam, seeming skeptical. As she should.

"Our parents were a bit, uhm," Sam said, ducking his head.

"Let me guess, huge fans of the Allman Brothers?" she filled in the blanks.

"What can you do? Parents," Dean spoke up, as he stealthily jabbed Sam in the back. "They just don't think things through sometimes."

The woman sniffed, but looked somewhat sympathetic.

"Anyway, we, uh, we're transferring here from the University of Kansas and need to speak with someone about the enrollment process," Sam said, fumbling his way through it.

"Oh, okay." The woman's face softened even more. Sam was charming her without even trying. "That's easy enough. I can help you right here. My name's Veleeta Cheese."

Dean choked. He couldn't help it – no wonder it looked like she understood the pain of their fake parents bestowing their fake names on them. Veleeta smiled at him. It was all ice. Dean ducked behind Sam just a little. But he wasn't scared.

"You can call me Leeta if you'd like."

"It's nice to meet you, Leeta," Sam said, polite and straight-faced as ever.

Damn him.

"You've started with online enrollment, yes? Let me pull up what we've got so far. I see you have the rest of the forms."

"Yes, ma'am, we should be all set."

"Let me just take a look at them…"

That was when Dean phased out again. The conversation between Sam and the cheese lady became a bunch of blah-blah-blahs as far as he was concerned. He heard random bits about how he and Sam were apparently too far away from fake mommy and daddy, blah-blah, good but not stupendous GPAs, blah-blah, they didn't need housing (It was at that point that Dean piped up to inform Ms. Cheese they'd be staying at their uncle Roy's house over in Clontarf for the time being, mostly because he'd known he had to use the name Clontarf in a sentence from the moment he saw it on a road sign. It was also at that point that Sam poked him in the ribs without even trying to hide it.), welcome to UMM, blah-blah, sign here, initial there.

At the end of half an hour of hell in higher education, Dean was officially an unofficial college student. By then he had also determined it would be a cakewalk to break in and delete their mock files, which made him feel a little bit better. But he itched to do it before they even left the building.


	3. Chapter 2

_Standard disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, which is one of the biggest tragedies of my self-centered life. UMM and the town of Morris do exist, though I might have taken a few liberties. OCs are mine, for better or worse. _

_A/N: Thank you to those who've put the story on alert, and for the handful of reviews. As I get closer to finishing the story, I hope to post chapters more often. I want to get to the actiony bits as much as the next person!_

_Now, the guys continue to information gather, in the hopes of figuring out what killed Meghan Schmidt, and how to keep the same thing from happening all over again._

**Sweet Caroline  
****Chapter 2**

The crowd was big, but the more people he tried to talk to the more Sam realized most of the wake attendees were there in a general instead of personal sense. It was difficult at first glance to tell the people who cried for Meghan Schmidt because they knew and loved her from those who were just shell-shocked by the sudden, inexplicable end of a young life. He could barely stand to look at the photo collage surrounded by flowers and other tokens without wincing, and he hadn't even known the girl. Her fresh-faced, wholesome prettiness smiled at him from across the room, only a ghost image now, a memory.

Sam winced again, looking across the expanse of the student center's Oyate Hall, toward Dean, who had attracted a large group of attentive women…and, to Sam's delight and Dean's clear embarrassment, a handful of men. He shook his head, rolling his eyes. He was starting to think he really should have given the suggestion to come in as reporters more credence. Dean as a college student was like a shark prowling in a sea of small fish. He had no idea if his brother was finding out anything useful at this point or just collecting phone numbers.

"You know him?"

Sam jerked, pulling his attention away from Dean. He glanced to the side, at a tall young woman – her height actually measured at about Dean's, which Sam didn't run across often. An immediate sense of kinship also didn't happen to him often, but every once in a while he met a person he liked within moments. The girl fell into that category, before a formal introduction. He didn't know why. He supposed it didn't matter much. Her brown hair was curly in a slightly disorderly way, she wore little makeup, had a dusting of freckles across her cheeks, and light brown eyes that were honest. And sad.

After half a second of consideration, Sam figured it wasn't anything physical about her that drew him in. It was the expression in her eyes that did it. It was familiar to him, a known quantity. Without knowing anything else about her, he knew he could relate to that look.

"Yeah," he said, following her head bob directly to Dean.

"He's really attractive."

Sam rolled his eyes in earnest this time. Then again, maybe his gut was wrong about her.

"Too bad he knows it," she said wryly.

Sam gave her a small smile, faith in his gut and in her quickly restored. She smiled back. She meant it, he sensed, but the smile didn't quite make it to her eyes. Sam thought he had found someone who'd been friends with Meghan Schmidt, or rather she'd found him. He immediately turned his whole body so that he was facing her, only at a slight angle so he was more tangible, but not intimidating and towering.

"That's true. He does," Sam said. "But, and I'll deny ever saying this, but there's more to him than that. Trust me."

"You're friends."

"He's my brother." He ducked his head a little, ready for her comment that he and Dean weren't much alike. Everyone always said that next, even without knowing either of them. But she didn't, so he looked back up. "I'm Sam."

"Iris," she said, sticking out her hand. He shook it. "You're new here, aren't you?"

"We just transferred in yesterday, actually."

"Well, welcome, Sam." She smiled again, but it still didn't quite make it to her eyes. "You've come at a bad time."

"We were checking out campus tonight and noticed the gathering. What happened?"

"A friend of mine died," Iris said. Her expression lost all vestiges of happiness. Her eyes filled with tears, and, god, Sam hated to press. "My roommate."

"I'm so sorry," Sam said softly.

He put a hand on her arm. Instead of withdrawing from the touch, Iris leaned in a little. Then she seemed to realize it and pulled back. Oh, boy, he understood that all too well.

"I know this must be hard for you."

"It is." Her voice was a whisper. "You have no idea."

He knew, then, that she and Meghan hadn't just been roommates. They'd been very close. He thought of how difficult it would be or have been for her to see her friend's things on the other side of her dorm room, as though Meghan wasn't really gone at all. He had nothing left of Jess, only a picture he couldn't bear to look at, and that was bad enough.

"I think maybe I do."

Iris stared at him, assessing. None of the tears in her eyes escaped, but they didn't go away, either. With what he and Dean did, they saw all sorts of people in all sorts of pain and grief. It wasn't an easy job, and sometimes Sam really hated it. Sometimes, too, he was amazed by how differently people reacted to loss, and he learned a lot from them. In a way, seeing others go through similar things helped him manage his own ever-present grief and rage about Jessica. Gaining something for himself from victims wasn't pretty, and it caused him guilt, but he needed it in order to keep going from time to time.

"Oh," she said at last. "You do understand."

He winced, looking away. Sam never really intended to use Jess to gain sympathy, or to get people to open up to him. He didn't need the constant reminder any more than he liked accidentally thumbing past her picture in his wallet. Tragic death, though, was an unfortunate, intricate part of his life now. Again. Always. He caught Dean staring over at him, still surrounded by people but no longer looking like he took enjoyment from it. He shook his head; Dean relaxed. Sam didn't quite know how his brother could be so tuned to him. It scared him a little sometimes.

"Is whatever happened to you why you transferred mid-semester?" Iris asked.

"Indirectly," he said, turning back to her. "It…I thought I could handle being there, but it turns out I was wrong. It just took me a little while to figure that out."

There were times Sam told himself he really could go back to Stanford and resume his normal life. Even during those times, he wasn't entirely sure he was really convinced about that. What he'd said to Dean about not truly fitting in held true; without Jessica there anymore, he thought he would crash and burn. Funny how it was now without Dean he would probably crash and burn. It unsettled him, this sudden realization that maybe he wasn't capable as his own person, like he functioned better as part of a whole than he ever could alone. It was ironic, given his independent streak.

"Besides, there's something to be said about being near your family."

"Like your brother?"

"Yeah, like my brother," Sam said, and realized he couldn't have spoken truer words. He glanced around the hall again, taking in the part-mourning, part-celebration of Meghan Schmidt's life. "But none of this is about me or my past."

"No," Iris said. This time she reached out and put a hand on his arm, drawing his attention. "It's just nice to know someone might understand a little, even if…"

Sam frowned. Iris paled, causing her freckles to stand out in stark contrast to her white skin.

"Even if what?" he prodded.

"Even if what happened to you wasn't your fault, like Meghan…like I…"

She trailed off again. The tears that hadn't yet left her eyes finally escaped. Sam wasn't a tactile person anymore. It hurt too much to get close to people in any way. Even if he were, it wouldn't be his place to hug her, but he wanted to because he did know what she felt. Her guilt was probably misplaced. If something supernatural caused her friend's death, there was nothing Iris could have done about it. If something natural caused her friend's death, there was also nothing she could have done about it. Even knowing these things, though, Sam didn't issue contradictions, because it didn't matter if it wasn't really her fault. It was far too soon to try to tell her otherwise.

"Why do you think it's somehow your fault?"

"Because we drove Meghan out to the cemetery. We just left her," said a new voice from behind him. The new girl, all caramel skin and familiarly sad eyes, moved around him cautiously and stood next to Iris. She twined their arms together. "We told her we'd s-see her in the morning, and just left her there."

"Why were you in a cemetery in the middle of the night?" He squirmed a little, hating to grill them when they were so upset. "And which cemetery?"

It never failed to surprise him when people opened up so easily, especially in settings like this. They were at a wake. The last thing they probably wanted to do was talk about the specifics of their friend's death. Or the circumstances that led up to it. And yet…

"Summit. It's just outside campus. It was just a dare," Iris said. "Part of a stupid game. Meghan didn't even want to play, and she ended up dea…"

The new, still nameless girl put her head on Iris' shoulder when Iris stopped talking again. Well, leaned on her upper arm; there was a bit of a height difference. They looked lost, like little girls instead of women. They were probably only nineteen or twenty. They hadn't had death in their lives to make them old, like he and Dean had been before they were even ten years old. Dean had been old since he was four. Sam grimaced, but only on the inside. He didn't need to let his uneasy thoughts disturb them even more.

"If she'd only told the truth, then this wouldn't have happened," the other girl said. Then she gave a little gasp and stopped leaning on Iris, hands coming up to cover most of her face. "Oh, god, I didn't mean that. It wasn't her fault."

"Oh, Gwen, of course you didn't mean it like that," Iris said, moving so she could wrap one arm around her friend. She looked straight at Sam then. "And it wasn't Meghan's fault any more than it was ours. Sometimes bad things just happen to people."

Sam didn't think she wholly believed what she said herself, but he appreciated her trying to help her friend. He also appreciated that she seemed to intrinsically know what he was thinking. He thought if they had more time, he could become friends with Iris. It was too bad he wouldn't have that chance, though it wasn't out of the question for him to stay in touch. He still got emails from Matt Pike occasionally, and was glad to hear he and his dad got along so well now. Sometimes he heard from Lori Sorensen, as well as from a handful of others. In a way, it was easier to hear from people he and Dean had helped than from his friends at Stanford, who, with the exception of Becky and Zach, were dropping inevitably out of his life. Sam shook his head. What was he thinking? He wasn't there to make friends. Normal people had friends. He wasn't normal.

"I don't mean to push, but what exactly did they say happened to her?"

"I talked to her parents yesterday. They still don't know much." Iris' nostrils flared, the only outward sign of the struggle to keep her tears from flowing. "Something about natural causes."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be asking you this stuff."

"It's okay, Sam, but I think Gwen and I are going to head out now." Iris tilted her head toward the door. "It was nice meeting you. Maybe we'll see you around campus, later when we're more ourselves?"

"Yeah, sure, I'd like that," he said, keeping his voice in a sympathetic, soft timbre. He patted down his pockets, found Veleeta Cheese's business card. He took it out, scrawling his cell number on the back. "Let me give you my number. Call me anytime. I know how it can be with people, so if you ever just need to talk to someone, I'll be around."

"Thanks," Iris said. "I might take you up on that."

"Do you guys need me to walk you home or anything?"

"No, that's okay. This is UMM. I'm sure you've figured out this campus is the size of a postage stamp."

"If you're sure."

"We'll be fine, really. Thanks, Sam."

Iris and Gwen started away from him, arms linked loosely again. He turned, searching for Dean. When not pinned down by hot girls, his brother had managed a circuit around the room while Sam had stood still. Sam had learned a little from Iris, but not enough. He hoped Dean had found some information that would be more useful. He watched for a minute or two, impressed that Dean wasn't standing out like the sore thumb Sam had thought he would. This wasn't exactly the type of college party Dean preferred, not that it was a party at all. Within a few minutes, Dean worked his way to Sam's side.

"So what happened to the 'they're barely eighteen' righteous indignation you gave me?" Dean said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Quite the double standard you've got there, Sammy."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, I saw the way you and that tall redhead were looking at each other. What is it with you and damaged college girls, anyway?"

"Dean, it wasn't like that. I wasn't hitting on her," Sam said, with a fair amount of exasperation. He really needed to stop letting Dean get to him, or at least stop reacting. He felt like he and Dean hadn't progressed beyond childhood sometimes. "That girl was Meghan Schmidt's roommate, and the other was a close friend. Even if they were just random girls, trying to pick either one of them up here would be in bad taste. _You_ were the one collecting phone numbers from girls just out of high school, you perv."

"Whoa, someone's protesting too much. Whatever you say. She was hot in a wholesome kind of way, though. She had nice legs. You could do worse."

Sam hadn't even really noticed Iris' looks from an aesthetic standpoint. He never had seen other women, not after the first moment he'd laid eyes on Jessica, and before that not ever in the same way Dean seemed to see them.

"Anyway." He gave Dean a moving-on-now look. That vein of conversation had lasted too long as it was. "From what I could tell, they were playing Truth or Dare that night. Meghan ended up being dared to spend the night alone in the cemetery. It's a good bet we need to look there. What about you, did you find anything out?"

"Nothing solid. Apparently the owner of the Dairy Queen is, and I quote, 'effin' creepy.' There could be more to him than meets the eye."

"Or you talked to a disgruntled employee."

"Don't worry, that's not all I got. We have an appointment tomorrow morning with a history professor who's apparently fascinated with local lore and is happy to share his records," Dean said. "Be extra geeky. I told him you were into that kind of shit."

"Of course you did."

"I know you've been dying to whip out your pocket protector."

Sam rolled his eyes. He didn't dignify that with a response.

* * *

I'd love to hear what you think so far! I know this was a bit of re-hash of the prologue, but Sam and Dean didn't have that information. :)


	4. Chapter 3

_Standard disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, which is one of the biggest tragedies of my self-centered life. UMM and the town of Morris do exist, though I might have taken a few liberties. OCs are mine, for better or worse._

_A/N: Thanks again for reading! :)_

**Sweet Caroline, ****Chapter 3**

They could have gone to one of Morris' plentiful bars like Dean wanted to do. They would have had a few beers, played a few games of pool and maybe gotten information out of the townies. But no. At Sam's insistence, they were spending the night in Summit Cemetery (and Calvary next to it, probably), searching for signs of supernatural activity. Dean didn't like tromping around the scene of the event before they knew what they were dealing with, at least not when it was a cemetery and it was the middle of the night. The odds of them pinpointing the _right_ supernatural sign were slim. It was part and parcel for boneyards to have plenty of spooks. Uninformed, they'd have a tough time figuring which was the culprit.

"I still don't see why this couldn't have waited until tomorrow."

"Quit your whining, Dean."

"Quit your whining, Dean," he mimicked. "Hell, we could be someplace warm. With beer and maybe some women. It's freaking cold out here, and there's no beer. Or women."

"Jeez, you don't ever stop, do you?" Sam said, spinning toward him.

His brother's face was mostly shadows, the moon was at its first quarter and, filtered through the trees, provided bare illumination. There was just enough light for him to see genuine irritation in Sam's expression. Dean would have felt bad about that if he didn't genuinely prefer beer and women to this.

"You know this kind of mysterious death tends to bring out gawkers and stupid, stoned kids. Maybe if we're lucky we'll find this thing tonight and take care of it right here and now. That way no one else will get hurt."

"Maybe," Dean said.

Then again, maybe not. Their luck didn't exactly run on the one hundred percent positive side. If anything, it hedged more on the negative. The EMF detector Sam held squealed to life for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time he watched as Sam swung the camera around slowly. Dean refrained from saying out loud how there were probably lots of ghosts lingering around, because he wasn't that big a jerk and he knew Sam already knew that. What he didn't know was why Sam so insistent with this hunt, though he'd lay money down that it had something to do with a certain redheaded roommate of the victim. Sam played a dangerous game of trying to fix everything for everyone, the very way it hadn't been fixed for himself. Dean frowned.

"Over there," Sam said, pointing north. Dean made a show of looking in the camera's screen. "Orbs, but they look small and faint."

"Not our culprits."

"No, but maybe we should try to give them some peace while we're here."

"Do we really know they're not at peace now? They look pretty content to me."

Sam scowled at him.

"Hey, I'm just saying that unless this is some gang-style ghost killing, chances are those things aren't worth the effort. Plus getting rid of every lingering spirit is not a task we're prepared for at this very second."

Dean spread his arms out in supplication, the beam of his flashlight bobbing and weaving through the faintly blue-tinted atmosphere in one direction, his arm strangely elongated from the sawed off shotgun he held in the other. As if on cue, the moon tucked behind a bank of clouds and a light sprinkling of rain started.

"Sam, come on. It's cold, now it's wet and we've done due diligence for the night. No one's going to come out here in the rain, man. We've still got an hour before the bars close. Let's go have a few beers, maybe hustle some pool. We could use the cash. You know, rest up for a long day of researching fun tomorrow instead of spending all night out here."

Sam looked at him moodily, as per usual; the day that stopped Dean would wonder if the kid had been swapped out with some unmoody clone. That was actually kind of an unnerving thought. Peppy Sam would be freaky as hell. Sam hadn't been peppy since, well, ever. For a fraction of a second Sam looked like he was going to protest against his suggestion, but then his shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Dean clapped him on the arm, heading for the cemetery gate. He heard footsteps behind him, all he needed to know that Sam was finally seeing things his way. He had the keys out of his pocket, at the ready before he'd even exited the graveyard.

So when he got to the car, deposited his weapons in the trunk and swung around to tell Sam which of the twelve bars they were going to and found his brother wasn't behind him after all, Dean was taken more than a little off guard.

"Sam," he hissed, not wanting to shout for fear of unwanted attention. "Where are you, man? I thought you were with me on this."

No answer.

"Sam?" He said it a bit louder this time, and he re-armed himself before shutting the trunk quietly. "Sam, answer me."

"Oh, god, help! Someone help!"

That wasn't Sam. The voice was too tremulous and high-pitched and incautiously loud. But it was followed by a deeper cry of his name, and that _was_ Sam. Dean didn't pause. He ran straight back into the cemetery, visually scanning for his big little brother. Unnecessarily large statuary and shrubbery made that a lot trickier than it should have been. He kept slipping on the wet grass and soggy detritus, and he cursed the caretaker for doing a crappy job at maintenance.

"Sam, where are you, man?"

As a response, he heard a clank, a groan, a pitiful scream and a resounding thud. All pretty much at the same time. Upright grave markers really screwed with acoustics, making it near impossible for him to get a grasp on where the sounds originated. Dean frantically kept looking for any clue. After what seemed like forever, he spotted an obscured beam of light. He headed for it, shotgun at the ready, all the way across to the other side of the graveyard, near a second large gated entrance was located. He found a skinny kid cowering next to a small bench, but no sign of Sam.

"Hey, you all right?" Dean said softly, but gruff as well. It wasn't that he didn't care about this guy, but he needed to find Sam. The guy nodded, shook his head, then nodded again. Great. "What happened?"

"I d-don't really know."

"There was another guy, taller than me, shaggy hair. Way less handsome. He probably saved your ass. Ring any bells?"

The guy nodded again, a grimace on his face.

"Where'd he go?"

"Flew. He f-flew in the _air_. I've n-never seen that before in real life."

Dean counted to five, trying to remain calm while his insides twisted and turned slightly gelatinous. He couldn't hear Sam making any sounds. That meant one of two things as far as Dean figured, neither of them good. He looked at the terrified guy pointedly, getting a vague, shaky gesticulation in return.

"Over that way," the kid said.

"Don't go anywhere." Dean paused, making sure the kid had heard him. When he was met with more of the same glazed look, he put more edge in his voice. "Hey. Don't go anywhere, okay? I'll probably be right back."

Dean ignored the plaintive "You're leaving me alone?" that floated in the air after him. All he was interested in at the moment was finding Sam okay. And maybe after that, chewing his brother out for taking off alone, even though he was more upset with himself about that. Dean had spent the better part of the night purposely not focusing or seeing things because he didn't want to be there. A cardinal rule of hunting was to always be alert. He knew that. He lived and breathed that. His self-flagellation was not helping him find Sam. He cleared his head and looked harder. He finally saw a bush that looked more like a crumpled pile of clothes.

"Sam," he said, half relieved, half concerned.

Sam lay prone, limbs all over the place, next to a short rectangular marker. Dean squatted down, setting the shotgun next to Sam's, which had obviously fallen out of his brother's grip. He reached out and grasped Sam's shoulder, turning him over gently. He took stock of Sam, glad when he saw no gaping wounds. In the pale moonlight, though, he could make out the start of a tremendous shiner forming around Sam's left eye.

"Hey, little brother." He gave Sam a gentle slap to his right cheek. "Time to wake up."

"Ugh, nuh uh," Sam said, apparently incapable of real speech.

It was better than no response at all. While Sam was rousing more, Dean gave a quick glance back to the other guy, making sure he had stayed put and was okay. The kid looked like a field mouse hiding from an owl, petrified and shit-scared, definitely not going anywhere except underneath the stone bench for protection. Not that it would actually _provide_ protection. Dean turned back to Sam.

"Come on, dude. Wake up."

"Nuh. No."

"Seriously, Sammy."

Dean did not like sitting out in the open like this. He had too many distractions to have to worry about the unknown entity returning for round two. His little brother wasn't the world's best physical fighter, but he always held his own. Dean didn't believe for one second Sam would be felled so quickly by anything. Plus they had that kid to get the hell out of there, too. Dean put as much authority in his voice as possible, hoping Sam would fall back into habits ingrained into both of them by virtue of a John Winchester upbringing.

"Get up and get moving now before whatever's out here comes back for more."

That worked. Sam opened his eyes and sat up, though he swayed a little. Not surprising. Any hit that caused unconsciousness for any amount of time wasn't something to mess around with. Dean clasped his brother by both shoulders. He squinted closely, tried to see if Sam's pupils were all right. They seemed fine, from what he could tell in the dim light and rain. He didn't want to take any chances, not that he could do anything about it in a cemetery.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," Sam said in that familiar thick, just-been-pummeled dazed voice of his. Sad that Dean was so accustomed to the tone to have expected it. "I'm good."

"What were you thinking going off alone like that?" Dean said sharply, letting go of some pent up tension now that he knew Sam was mostly okay. He peered at the bruise on Sam's face. Damn, he saw that it had broken skin after all. Sam might even need a butterfly bandage or maybe a couple of stitches. Rain diluted the blood trailing down Sam's face to a translucent bluish-pink. "That was pretty stupid."

"I actually did call your name first." Sam ducked away when Dean probed at the bleeding cut and bruise. "Dude, watch it. That hurts."

"Sorry." He wasn't.

"You must not have heard me. I saw someone on the oth…" Sam gawped at him, scrambling to his feet after a moment, where he wavered back and forth unsteadily. "Dean, there was someone else in the cemetery."

"I know. He's right over there."

Dean pointed to where he left the guy, not more than ten feet away, and never out of his eyesight. Sam stumbled in that direction.

"You left him alone?"

Dean sighed, grabbed the guns and followed after Sam. He wanted to know what the hell had happened, but that could wait until they got safely away from this place. They fell into automatic routine. He tossed Sam a shotgun. Together, they pulled the guy out from his inadequate hiding place, getting him moving before he could sink down on the bench to continue his mental recovery. It took time for regular people to overcome paranormal events, go figure. It was time Dean didn't want to allow for.

"Come on, let us take you home," Dean said. "What's your name?"

"Wuh. Will Pendleton."

"Well, Will. Where to?"

"Gay."

"Beg pardon?" Dean was all for brevity, but the few words spoken had to make some kind of sense. Will just looked at him, then at Sam, and then back to him again. Dean sighed. That again. "Not that it's a relevant topic for you to bring up, but we're brothers."

"What?" Will said and blinked a couple of times. "Oh. No. No, I live in Gay Hall. It's, you know, a dorm. At the college. Where I go. You know, to school."

"Oh." Dean shot Sam an amused but perturbed look over Will's head. The kid was shocky. "Okay, then."

Will clambered into the backseat when they got to the car, only then noticing both Dean and Sam carried weapons. He looked ready to bolt, so Sam handed his stuff off to Dean and started working his magic. For the simple fact Sam excelled at the sympathetic shit, Dean was glad to have him along. Of course, that was only one of a long list of reasons. He had lots of them, but most of them resided in areas within himself that he hated openly acknowledging. He didn't even like to put them into thought, if he was going to be honest.

By the time Dean stowed away the gear and slid into the driver's seat, Will was more relaxed. Sam was so good at that touchy-feely crap. Dean glanced back at Will, who gave him a wavering, confused smile. Dean cleared his throat, turned back around and just drove.

"So," he said as he circled around campus. He looked at Will through the rearview mirror. "What were you doing in a cemetery in the middle of the night?"

"What were _you_ doing there?" Will countered. Apparently the shock was wearing off. And the guy had more backbone once he was in a safe place. His voice was still a bit shaky, though.

"We're kind of unsolved mysteries buffs," Sam said. He turned in the seat, so he could look directly at Will. "We heard some weird things might have happened out there and wanted to check it out for ourselves."

"With _guns_?"

"Wuh…well. About that. You see, it's…well…"

"We'll be honest with you, Will," Dean said, interrupting Sam's floundering. It was kind of aggravating at times how the whole faltering-with-his-words thing only made Sam more empathetic, somehow, but it was also usually helpful. "We're amateur ghost hunters. Everyone's got to have a hobby."

"Ghost hunters. Like 'who you gonna call?'"

"Yeeeah. Not really." Dean cringed.

He saw Sam do the same. Amateur ghost hunters, what was he thinking? That was almost as bad as the fake names Sam had come up with. Now that _Ghostbusters_ had been mentioned, though, Sam did kind of remind Dean of the tall, nerdy one. Or the maybe goofy, earnest one. Or _maybe_ a love child between the two, a thought Dean found equal parts funny and disturbing.

"We heard that Meghan Schmidt girl was found around there, so we figured it would be a good spot to check for paranormal activity. I mean, no one really knows what happened to her."

"They…" Will paused.

Dean could practically feel Sam dialing his empathy up, and knew the expression his brother had adopted without even verifying. Instead, he glanced at Will in the mirror and watched the guy look at Sam and relax. Caught. Like a frigging fly to honey. Dean smiled, filled with a sudden pang at how much he'd missed having his brother around.

"They say she was scared to death. Like, literally."

"Who's they and how did they arrive at that conclusion?" Dean said.

"A guy in my roommate's chem class is roommates with the boyfriend of the roommate of the dead girl and _he_ said when the girlfriend went looking and found the dead girl just, like, frozen. Like the dead girl had been screaming or something when she, y'know, died."

"Iris?" Sam asked softly.

Dean noted something familiar in the tone. He shot Sam a look, while Will just stared blankly. Sam shook his head a little, as if clearing it. Dean didn't have to speculate very hard about what ghosts were flying around his brother's head.

"What do you think could do something like that?" Dean kept his voice casual.

"I dunno, man. That big guy or whatever it was that tossed you around, maybe?" Will snorted and muttered something unintelligible but probably rude. "You're the quote unquote ghost hunters."

"Right." Sam paused to look all attentive and sincere the way he always managed. "We have thoughts, of course, but figured maybe other ideas have been circulating around campus."

"Like, what do you mean?"

"Never mind," Dean said.

It was pretty clear Will didn't really know anything more than he'd already shared, and frankly Dean didn't care enough to find out why he'd been out in a graveyard at midnight. Sam huffed impatiently, barely noticeable irritation to anyone who wasn't Dean. If Sam was throwing up his proverbial hands, then Dean knew there was no point in doing anything but getting the guy home. Besides, he wanted to get a closer look at Sam's bruised face, check for signs of concussion even though his brother seemed fine. Sam turned his body until he faced front again. The car fell silent apart from sporadic directions provided by their passenger. Dean turned where told, eventually pulling into the south parking lot of the UMM campus.

"If you could drop me off right up there," Will said, leaning up, the vinyl seat squeaking with his movement, pointing to a short set of cement stairs, "That would be awesome."

Dean pulled the car up to the curb and held back from kicking Will to it. There was no particular reason, really. The kid just bugged him. He glanced over to Sam and his bruised, bleeding face. Oh, yeah. Will hadn't shown the appropriate level of gratitude for Sam saving him. In fact, the guy had been a regular smartass.

"And if you could not mention this to anyone," Dean said as Will got out of the car. "That would be awesome."

"The scene would be compromised if more people knew we were out there looking for something," Sam added. "You understand."

Of course Will understood. He nodded sagely and said, "You don't want people to think you're crazy."

Close enough. Dean suspected that by morning at least half the student body would know about Will's nocturnal adventures, and about his and Sam's craziness. He reached back, grabbing a sleeve before Will ducked all the way out of the car.

"Something like that," Dean said, making his accompanying smile ominous. "Crazy or not, just remember we've got weapons, Will."

Will paled and gulped, extricating himself from Dean's grip. Little Willy, Willy _did_ go home.

* * *

The plot thickens...


	5. Chapter 4

_Standard disclaimer still applies._

_A/N: Thanks again for reading, if anyone still is! Posting this as I write was supposed to motivate me, but I think it's caused writer's block instead. Don't worry, though, I hope by the time I get to where I'm stuck, I'll be unstuck. ;)_

_Until then, more plot thickening._

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 4**

Sam's headache lingered despite a decent night's sleep. The flickering fluorescent lighting in the bathroom didn't help as he made a face at his reflection in the mirror. The swelling had been kept to a minimum, but his left eye had turned wonderful shades of blue and black overnight. He probed at it with his pointer and middle fingers, hissing at the expected pain. The cut at the center of it was small, but the skin had split fairly wide. Reapplying one side of a clear butterfly bandage, he pressed the gash back together before he pasted the other half of the strip into place. He lifted his chin to eye the handiwork in better light. He heard the motel door open and shut.

"Got your coffee, Sammy," Dean announced. "How's the shiner?"

"Shiny. And it's Sam." Sam loped out of the bathroom, extricating the coffee cup from Dean's grasp. Dean made a face at the bruise. "It's nothing a pair of sunglasses won't hide. Mostly."

"Still, ouch." Dean sipped his coffee, watching Sam with a strange energetic vibe that made him wary. "You look like you've been in a bar fight. Whatever will people think?"

"If people think we're thugs it'll be because you threatened Will last night. _'Just remember we have weapons,'_ Dean?"

"No, if people think that it'll be because of your busted-up, ugly mug."

His brother smiled beatifically. Sam rolled his eyes, wincing at the pull the action caused on his bruised cheekbone. Dean stepped closer to peer at the injury.

"Came really close to the eye, though," Dean said, somehow losing most of the smart aleck from his voice. "It won't even leave a scar."

Something Sam couldn't quite read flickered in his brother's eyes. He felt a twinge, spiraling deep inside his gut. He didn't know why, exactly. The more time he spent with Dean, the more Sam started to actually _see_ him. He wondered now about all of his childhood memories, how accurate they could possibly be coming from a confused, isolated and lonely kid. Dean was still the same hero figure Sam remembered him being, but there was depth he didn't quite understand, yet knew he regretted not seeing before.

"Well, thank God for that," he said dryly, trying to get that discomfiting look off Dean's face. "My ugly mug couldn't take it."

Dean snorted, regaining a smug expression. Lifting the butt of his hand until it rested on Sam's forehead, Dean gave him a gentle push back. That was more like it. Sam took a swallow of his drink, nearly choking when he discovered Dean had put more sugar and cream in it than coffee. Yeah. That explained why his brother had kept looking at him like he was a lab experiment. Dean was a serious pain in the ass sometimes. Sam coughed to hide a smile; it wasn't a good idea to feed the bears. Encouraging Dean would prolong his own torture.

"Nice, Dean. Thanks."

"I do what I can, Sammy. I know you like it girly."

"Asshole."

Dean grinned.

"Come on, get your stuff and let's go. We've got time for food before we meet with Professor O'Reilly. My good friend Aimee at the front desk recommended a place. I don't know about you, but I'm _starving_."

Sam's stomach growled on cue. Coffee wasn't going to cut it for breakfast, especially what his brother had gotten for him. Nodding, he abandoned the cup of sugar-laced coffee on the table, loading the laptop and Dad's journal into his shoulder bag. He trailed after Dean, hastily hanging the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the door handle as he exited.

The café Dean's good friend Aimee had pointed them to was only a few blocks away, a little hole-in-the-wall dive. It was pretty much like every other restaurant they frequented, maybe a little smaller and more crowded. Mom and Pop places like this somehow fostered an illusion that home cooked meals meant burgers on buttered, fried buns, limp French fries and cracked plates. In a way, Sam supposed, that was true. Until Je…until Stanford, he hadn't had a meal cooked specifically for him that didn't consist of Spaghetti O's, macaroni and cheese or Lucky Charms. If Dean ever had, Sam didn't know about it. It was just one more thing he didn't know about his brother.

Dean led them to a spot at the far wall, all of three short steps. The café was a tiny box, with Formica-topped tables filling one end, a row of booths and a counter with stools filling three quarters of the space. Dean took the chair facing the door, leaving Sam with his back to it and his bad eye to the window.

"Welcome to Don's. Get you boys started with some coffee?" a woman greeted. "You look like you spent the night at The Met, hitting it hard until dawn."

"Please," Sam said, glancing up at the waitress in baggy jeans and stained sweatshirt instead of a uniform. He flipped his cup over for her to pour. "Thank you."

"You bet, hon. It's nice and strong to help with the hangover it looks like you've got," she said with a distracted smile, pointing to the sunglasses he'd put on in the car and hadn't removed. She continued on by rote, "Name's Fran. I'll be back in a few for your orders. I do not recommend the fruit bowl. It's off season for…well, everything."

She wandered away from them without waiting for a response. Sam watched Fran as she grabbed a couple plates from the pass-through window at the far end of the diner counter, delivering them to a table in the corner. The toast was sliced about an inch and a half thick. He wasn't _that_ hungry. Reaching for the sugar packets, Sam caught Dean looking at him with a glint in his eye. He decided he didn't need sugar in his coffee, letting his hand retract to the handle of his coffee cup. Dean seemed disappointed.

"So," Dean said as he studied the laminated menu. "You really didn't see what smacked you around last night? Anything come to you since?"

"No, man. Will was running when I got there. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was big. That's about all I got before I went flying." Sam took a sip of the coffee, finding it strong and bitter. He longed for sugar, but tried not to show it. "The bruise could be from crashing into the headstone, so I don't know if the thing was a spirit or something corporeal."

"That's not really helpful."

"I know. Next time I get tossed around like a sack of potatoes I'll be sure to take notes."

Sam shrugged off Dean's glare. With any luck, the professor would point them in the right direction. Even if he didn't, it seemed clear to Sam what had happened was directly related to the cemetery. Local history might cough up something about that. None of the news articles from area papers or the bigger Minneapolis/St. Paul papers mentioned anything odd. If it wasn't prominent in the news, though, whatever it was, it was vague enough not to raise flags. Taking a sip of the too-strong coffee, Sam forgot to school his reaction to the bitter liquid.

"Oh, just load up on the sugar, Nancy," Dean said.

"Shut up, jerk," he said lightly.

Sam took two sugar packets and two creams, stirring them in quickly. Fran came back for their orders just as Dean was mocking him with a raised pinky as he drank his own coffee. Luckily for Sam, she still seemed disinterested in her surroundings and didn't react. Like he needed grief from anyone besides Dean. Forewarned to the portion sizes, Sam stuck to toast only. That earned another snicker from Dean, who ordered the Manly-Man Omelet with extra bacon on the side. Sam would see who was laughing when their food arrived. Dean sometimes seemed like a bottomless pit, but Sam would bet hard cash his brother couldn't finish the meal.

"The camera," Dean said, out of the blue. "Did you have the camera, or did we leave it out there?"

Crap.

"I must have dropped it." Sam raised his eyebrows. "You think it could have caught something?"

"I don't know. Had you turned it off?"

"No, I kept scanning as we started leaving. I can't remember if I lost it before I ran for Will or not, though."

Dean looked at his watch. "Maybe we should split up. I'll get the camera, you talk to O'Reilly."

"Nice. No, I don't think so. You're not worming your way out of the boring stuff this time, Dean."

Fran appeared with heavy plates. Dean looked briefly dismayed to see how much food was on his. Sam enjoyed that a lot. His own toast with a side of congealing grape jelly was enough to feed both of them. Topping off the coffee he'd just sugared up to his taste, Fran did the same for Dean. She smiled and blushed when Dean winked at her. Sam counted to ten really fast in his head.

"Thanks," Sam said to her.

The waitress gave him a bare nod before wandering away. Sometimes Sam felt like chopped liver to Dean's filet mignon. Even though he didn't exactly want to be like Dean in that way, he still felt a spasm of jealousy. He would never admit that, and he hadn't missed that feeling at all while he was at Stanford.

"Seriously, the professor's not going to want to talk to someone who looks like he's been in a bar fight," Sam said. "I'll find the camera and then start researching at the town library while you go talk to him."

"Either way I'm screwed, I guess," Dean said with a sigh, and Sam knew he'd won. "You know, I like it better when we know what we're hunting before we get somewhere. Go in, kill evil things, get out. No endless hours with paper and dust."

"We _always_ have to spend time researching. It's part of the job."

"Yeah, yeah. I know that. I can't help it if I'm not a gigantic geek like you and don't enjoy it."

"Your eggs are getting cold," Sam said, stabbing his butter-laden knife at the heaping pile of yellow on Dean's plate. He couldn't resist egging his brother on. No pun. "Twenty bucks says you don't finish all of that."

"You're on." Dean peered at the condiments on theirs and surrounding tables. "Not without hot sauce, though."

Sam pointed to the bottles of Tabasco on the counter. Sighing, Dean stood and stretched for the nearest one. As his brother doused his omelet with the sauce, Sam couldn't help thinking about heartburn. And as his brother shoveled eggs into his mouth, Sam wondered if twenty dollars might not cover the queasiness produced by watching Dean eat. He averted his eyes, keeping them on his own plate, where it was safe. It was almost like he really did have a hangover. Skipping the jelly entirely, he spread the butter on the lukewarm toast and started munching. They ate in relative silence, notwithstanding Dean's over the top smacking. The rest of the café was filled with quiet chatter and utensils clinking against plates.

Loud, mechanical-sounding voices burst from the kitchen all of a sudden, startling everyone in the dining area. Sam sat up straighter. He recognized the police scanner before the wail of sirens from somewhere nearby confirmed it. Fran looked grim and white as she exited through the narrow kitchen door. Sam exchanged glances with Dean. They both had to be thinking the same thing. Towns like this probably didn't get a lot of cop action outside of speeders or an occasional DUI, definitely not this early in the morning. Dean dropped his fork and stood, taking a few steps toward Fran.

"What's going on?"

"You boys from the school?" Fran asked. Dean nodded. "So you know about that poor girl they found a week back? Well, I think they just found another kid out there."

Putting his half-eaten slice of toast down, Sam pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair squealing against linoleum. It felt like Sam's stomach twisted up into a little ball. They'd left the cemetery just after midnight, certain there wouldn't be another incident. There shouldn't have been. No. Some poor kid was dead because they'd left things unguarded. He reached up, touching the bruise on his face. This was his fault. If he hadn't been hurt, they might have gone back after getting Will home, to learn more about what attacked them. Dean frowned at him.

"A 419?" Dean asked Fran. "You're sure?"

Several low murmurs of shock floated from a few of the other diners. Fran affirmed it with a brief nod, her facial features becoming stark and angular with tired, fearful concern.

"This kind of thing don't happen around here," she said. "It just don't."

She handed Sam their bill with a shaky hand. He stared down at it like he'd never seen such a thing before, stuck in a loop of self-imposed guilt. Dean frowned at him some more, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and handing it to Fran without looking at the total. Sam crazily thought about how he was right about Dean not finishing his food and, seconds later, about how he shouldn't be thinking stupidass crap like that right now. Dean slid into his jacket and started moving for the door. Sam shook himself out of his stupor, following.

"Dude, this wasn't our fault," Dean said the second they pushed through the glass door smudged with greasy fingerprints. "We can't camp out there every night to make sure no one wanders across whatever the hell is doing this. Sam, we don't even know what it is yet."

Somehow Dean knew what he was thinking, even with his eyes covered by sunglasses. Sam nodded as if he agreed, staring in front of him at nothing in particular. He thought Dean was protesting too much. It made Sam feel better and like a selfish bastard to know he wasn't alone in feeling responsible. There wasn't time for the blame game, he knew that. What was done was done, no undoing it through natural means. All they could do now was make sure it didn't happen again. They had to figure this out soon, before anyone else got hurt…or died. There'd be time for guilt in his nightmares.

They were less than a mile from the cemetery. It took only a few minutes to get there, but by the time they did Sam saw a small crowd had gathered. From the looks of it as Dean steered the car by slowly, the cops had managed to block off the cemetery gates. Sam noticed the hub of activity, including EMT, police and gawkers lining up along the fence line, was right around where they'd been last night. In the cool, damp morning, white puffs of vapor floated above the gathering with every exhalation, hovering there like apparitions. The pit in Sam's stomach grew impossibly heavier.

"That doesn't seem good," Dean said as he pulled over half a block away, not quite looking at Sam. "I was kind of hoping for a false alarm."

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice tight. They climbed out of the car. He met Dean's eye for a second before gazing toward the crowd. "Me, too."

No one paid much attention as he and Dean joined the onlookers. A few murmurs flitted through the air, but the overall atmosphere was solemn and hushed. Even with the advantage of height, most of Sam's view was blocked by policemen. What he could see was a small, limp hand. He swallowed. Dean moved a step closer to him, probably unaware he'd even done so. Sometimes, in moments like this, Sam felt as though they hadn't changed from boyhood at all, Dean always protecting him. It made his heart ache even as he felt a twinge of resentment. But, no, this wasn't about them.

"Do you know what happened?" Sam asked of an older, slightly hunched man.

"Besides another senseless death?" The man looked up at him, eyes flashing. "No."

"I heard someone say it's Tyler Hokanson," a woman on the other side of Dean said.

"Who's that?"

"Star wrestler. Third in state in his weight." The woman tutted sadly, shaking her head. "He was a sophomore. So young. His poor family."

"If it was even him," the cranky guy said as he shifted around and craned his neck. "They're definitely bringing someone out of there."

Taller than most of the crowd, Sam was in good position to see what was going on once the cops moved. Two stony-faced EMTs wheeled a gurney with a covered form on it. A slender, silver-haired man in a jacket emblazoned with bold white CORONER on the back walked in front of them. It didn't matter if the victim was a sixteen-year-old star athlete or a seventy-year-old retiree, someone was dead that shouldn't be.

"Maybe now they'll bring someone in that can stop this," the woman said, looking up at Dean as if for confirmation. "Such a shame. The whole town was upset with what happened to the girl. This will tear us apart."

Sam pursed his lips and exchanged a look with Dean. Neither of them had to say anything. The case had just turned more imperative. Sam watched the gurney being rolled through the cemetery until it was loaded into the ambulance and the doors shut, cutting off his view.

**Mystery supernatural thingy: 2  
Winchesters: 0**


	6. Chapter 5

Standard disclaimer still applies.

_A/N: Thanks again for reading. I'll eventually probably replace these chapters with edited versions - content won't change, but I'm going to clean it up a little. :)_

Last time, the mystery supernatural thing snagged another victim. Sam's upset. Dean's upset. Everyone's upset.

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 5**

Dean and Sam had decided they'd double as students and FBI agents, the latter of which was much more workable for Dean. It would be tricky, but they played dual roles often as needed. For the moment, though, they'd lay off the FBI routine until the coroner and sheriff's offices had settled a few hours. Depending on what they uncovered through old-fashioned research, they might be able to avoid any face-to-face contact by breaking in after hours. There was no need to interact with authorities for information if they already had it.

The cemetery was cordoned off now, so they had no idea if their camera was still there. Sam suspected it was in evidence lock-up, and Dean suspected Sam was right. All the more reason to break in to the sheriff's office; there was no way the police would hand it over, unless he and Sam were prepared to pretend the FBI was taking over the case. That would be an accident waiting for a place to happen.

Long story short, Dean had been stuck with professor duty despite the new death, and he had been right about it sucking.

"It was at this time the school went from agricultural to public liberal arts university, bringing a much needed boost to the community's economy," Professor Walter O'Reilly droned on, while Dean struggled with the urge to pick up the ornamental pen displayed on the desk and jam it into his eye socket.

"Wow, that's really fascinating," Dean said.

The elvish little professor peered at him through thick, brown-rimmed glasses, frowning, no small cue Dean's sincerity wasn't convincing. He really hoped Sam was having more luck, because this venture was a bust. Professor O'Reilly had a heavy bias toward the school's history. Any attempts Dean had made to steer the lesson to local lore had been thwarted.

"You have no interest in this at all, do you?" O'Reilly said, sighing. "It's too bad your brother couldn't have come himself. I hope he's feeling better soon, and I also hope to see him in some of my classes."

"You can count on it." Dean stood up, extending a hand. Even if the professor wanted to yammer at him for another hour, and he looked like he very well could, Dean was done. "I appreciate your time. I'll make sure I tell him everything you've shared with me. He'll probably want to come see you himself."

"Tell him to stop by during my office hours, anytime I happen to be here would be fine. Or he can make an appointment. I'm always happy to talk history with fellow lovers."

"I'll let him know, sir. Thanks again."

O'Reilly's small hand was damp. Dean cringed, managing to pull his expression into a feeble smile as he gave the professor one quick pump and released from the clammy grip. Once this was over and done with, Sam had some retribution coming for sticking him with this task. Dean flashed back to the horrified look on Sam's face when they learned about the second death, reconsidering his need for revenge. If Sam was even remotely the same guy he was pre-Stanford, the guilt was eating him up, enough punishment for this mild inconvenience. More.

Dean rubbed his hand down the front of his jeans and left the cluttered office. He wasn't exactly guilt-free himself. If it had been up to him, he and Sam wouldn't have scoped out the cemetery last night at all, and someone else would be just as dead. The thing to focus on now was making sure no one else died because of this. He strode through the musty corridor of Camden Hall until he made his escape. Outside, the fresh air smelled like freedom. Glancing at his watch, Dean scowled. Nearly an hour wasted in that academic hole, and he had nothing to show for it. If he knew his geek brother, Sam would have uncovered something by now, if there were something to uncover.

Dean kept his pace brisk as he walked toward the west parking lot. If Sam hadn't thought to get them a student parking permit, he'd have had to hike across campus. He always planned for a quick escape when he was in dangerous situations and places. As far as he was concerned a college campus qualified, even if it also brought lots of eye candy. He made it to the car in less than five minutes, and was at the small public library fifteen after that, taking into account a drive through McDonald's for fast coffee for himself and his brother. He found Sam at one of two microfiche machines, his good eye glazed over and his bad eye looking ugly in purple.

"Hey," Dean said. He set Sam's coffee down, chucking a few sugar packets on the table as well.

"Hey." Sam looked up, blinking a couple times before picking up his paper cup with a small smile. "Thanks. Any luck?"

"It was the longest, most useless hour of my life, man. The professor was a waste of time. What have you got here?"

"It's slow going," Sam said. "We're lucky the library has everything on microfiche, but even so I've got nothing yet."

Dean sighed with disappointment. These small time gigs and limited resources sometimes hindered Sam's research-fu. It was just their luck that this seemed to be the case now. Dean didn't take his jacket off when he sat down at the adjacent microfiche, like if he did it would jinx a speedy research session. He glanced at Sam's screen, seeing his brother had started at the oldest archived newspaper and was working his way to present. Dean would start at the most recent date and move backwards. They'd meet in the middle, unless one of them found something sooner. Sam nodded at him though Dean hadn't said anything, more of an understanding and trust that Dean knew how to research. They were still finding their footing with each other again. Moments like this, when they just clicked without any words being spoken, made Dean hopeful in a way that also made him nervous.

He settled in. It didn't take long for Dean's eyes to be as glazed as Sam's. Internet research was one thing, but hunting and pecking through old newspaper headlines blew chunks. Skimming was difficult to do, for one thing, and for another it was very possible what they were looking for wasn't a big headline. Every page got a once over for key words and photos, but so far Dean was coming up with no pattern of mysterious deaths. For that matter, he was blanking on anything useful.

"Hey, take a look at this," Sam said after a while.

Dean stretched his back and shoulders before leaning over. A quick glance at Sam's screen didn't reveal anything obvious. He squinted at Sam, seeking clarification. This always went so much better when Sam simply told him what he'd found rather than making Dean try to figure it out on his own. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Okay, what am I looking for?" Dean said.

"This." Sam pointed to the lower left corner of the screen. "It's not an exact match, but there's a pattern. You have to admit it's a little weird. In the early nineteen hundreds, there were multiple reports of a statue in Summit Cemetery that wept."

A statue that…Dean couldn't even think it, it was so ridiculous. There was no way they were dealing with the freaking weeping Virgin Mary phenomenon. Even if they were, it wasn't like sweet ol' Mother-of-God Mary would kill anyone. Not that he believed in her. Or her virginity, her crying statues, appearances on tortillas, or plate glass window reflections of her fair face.

"Sam."

"I know," Sam said.

"Sam, people mistaking condensation on a statue for tears isn't quite the same as people ending up dead," Dean continued on, enunciating carefully. That was a mistake. Sam stiffened, jerkily turning away. Dean didn't blame him. He was talking to his brother like he was insane. But… "Seriously, you have to admit you're reaching."

"I said I know, Dean." Sam looked back at him, reaching for his cup of coffee and lifting it to his mouth. He took one swallow, pulled a face and set it back down. "But it's a place to start. The monument could be dedicated to someone. We can dig up her history, maybe."

"What, you don't think it's Mary, mother of Jesus?"

Sam glared at him.

"It's not even a Catholic cemetery." Sam paused to look thoughtful. "Maybe there were deaths, but there's no fixed pattern with them. Maybe these last victims were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe their deaths were…crimes of opportunity. Maybe where we need to look is in the cemetery's history. There must be old records somewhere."

That was a lot of maybes. They couldn't work a case on maybes. Dean frowned. Maybes were better than nothing, and at this point were all he and Sam had. He frowned some more, attention fixed on the cuts and bruises on Sam's face. There was something tickling at his memory. It had nothing to do with a weeping statue, but something. Sam said he didn't know if he got the bruise because something hit him or because he hit the headstone. Stone. Monument.

"What?" Sam said.

"What, what?" Dean pulled back a little.

"You're staring at me, you freak. Blink or something. You're making me uncomfortable."

"Let me see Dad's journal for a second," Dean said, gesturing while Sam rifled through his bag and handed the journal to him. "I think there's…"

Dean trailed off, popping the clasp and flipping the pages with haste. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd know it when he saw it. Sam watched him, smart enough to know questions weren't necessary; Dean would share his train of thought when he was good and ready. He flashed by page after page of his father's heavy writing and rough pictures, somehow emanating the hidden desperation which had fueled the composition. Every time he looked at the journal Dean wondered where his father was, if he was okay. And every time he had to push those thoughts away, carry forward and stay focused.

He stopped thumbing when he reached a picture of a large monument, reading the scrawling information next to it. He tilted the book toward Sam, who leaned and shifted to read it. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam nod once. They'd have to verify a few…a lot of things before they could confirm Dean's hunch was right. But it fit closely enough to be a legitimate lead.

"You really think it's a version of the Black Agnes legend?"

"The first death fits it to a T, Sam," Dean said, tapping the scrawled text of the journal. "A girl at a slumber party is dared to spend the night in a cemetery, and she ends up dead."

"Yeah. The only difference is Meghan Schmidt had no idea what she was getting herself into. The story behind this particular statue must have gotten lost in history. It'll be that much more of a pain in the ass to track it down," Sam said.

"There can't be that many old statues in the cemetery. A town this size?" This was starting to look like an easy case. Find and destroy the statue, and that should eliminate the problem. "We should find out what the cause of death was for whoever they found this morning. My money's on heart attack, or something the coroner can't figure out."

"It was the sixteen-year-old wrestler." Sam looked at him gloomily. "I heard the librarian talking about it earlier."

"Damn," Dean said.

Somehow it was always that much worse when kids were involved. The first vic hadn't been much more than that herself. The worst thing about it was that it was all a fluke, no local lore had created curiosity too irresistible for teenagers. If Meghan Schmidt and her friends hadn't played Truth or Dare, if someone hadn't come up with that dare, two kids wouldn't be dead right now. Chances were good something like this wouldn't have happened for years, if at all. He and Sam had to end it tonight. The cops wouldn't stake out the cemetery forever, and sooner or later someone else would go out there. If the legend had been lost it was now found, more vivid than ever. Thanks to them telling Will Pendelton they were ghost hunters, at least one person was probably digging up the same information they were looking for.

Sam's expression was a mix of misery and determination. Dean had to get his brother focused on the determination part, just like he had to stay focused himself. It shouldn't be too hard. All he had to do was get Sam working on something and he wouldn't have time to think about anything else. There was plenty to be done before they could say without a doubt they were looking at a grieving spirit inhabiting a statue. One thing that worried him was the attack on Sam last night had been aggressive. Dad's journal didn't mention anything like any of the Black Agnes' physically assaulting anyone. Not with punches.

"The school library might have better resources," Sam said. For the first time since they started on this case, Sam didn't look that happy to play student. "One of us should check it out before someone else goes looking for it."

"You say that like it's going to be anyone but you." Dean flashed a grin. "I think I'll make nice with the cops while you get your geek on."

"Hey, man, _you_ were the one who figured this angle out. Don't pretend you're an aw-shucks-I'm-just-lucky kind of guy. Maybe you should take the ball and run with it."

Sam smiled at him, a barely there thing that made him look about six years old. For a second, Dean was back in time, to when that kind of faithful, little-boy smile was something Sam gave him every day. He couldn't ever count on that from Dad, but up until Sam started threatening to leave and those years he was gone, Dean was never without all of the trust he needed or wanted. Back in the present, they didn't have time for him to think about things from his lost childhood.

"Nice try," he said. "The ball's all yours."

"Or we could both go to the sheriff's office, then campus."

Dean nodded. They worked best as tag-team anyway. The truth was Dean hated trips to the morgue, and having Sam with him would help seeing a dead kid on a cold slab more bearable.


	7. Chapter 6

_Standard disclaimer still applies. Truly, and sadly._

_A/N: Thanks again for reading! I made and passed my lofty goal of ten reviews. Whee! I'm starting to get nervous, though. I made another commitment, thinking I was racing toward the finish line with this story, but I'm only slowly plugging away. /chews fingernails/_

_Last time: The boys know what and where, but they don't know who, when, why or how. They really oughta get crackin'._

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 6**

It never really got easier for Sam, not on the inside. What came naturally to Dean was a struggle for Sam even when he knew this was where he was supposed to be, and what he was supposed to be doing. He shifted around on his feet, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. One of the deputies kept staring at his black eye, attention shifting from it to his shaggy haircut. He stood up straighter, wishing he'd combed his hair better or slicked it back.

"Agent Krieger and I were asked to come down and make sure things were running smoothly," Dean was saying, all confidence and brisk intelligence. "Have you determined cause of death for the second victim?"

"Tyler," Sheriff Willis said. Unshaven, tired, and looking older than he probably was, the man went from slouching slightly to square-shouldered and hard in the blink of an eye. "The second victim's name is…was Tyler Hokanson, Agent Morrison. I just had to tell his parents."

Both Sam and Dean flinched, which Sam hoped lent them more humanity. Small town cops generally didn't like feds coming into their investigations, so every little bit helped. Sam still thought it would have been a better idea to wait until after hours to break in and get what they needed, but even in more remote areas like this security was increasing. He had pushed that envelope, and tore it up, by enrolling Dean in college. Plus he thought Dean secretly liked the power trip of impersonating a fed. He glanced over at his brother, and amended that; there was nothing secret about the way Dean liked the power – he got some perverse pleasure out of playing authority figures, yet grumbling about the suit all the while.

"We meant no disrespect, sir," Sam said. "We're here to help."

The sheriff's stance relaxed, but he didn't go back into a full slouch. Sam caught Dean looking over at him with an expression of approval he found disconcerting and, at the same time, strangely satisfying. Most of what he could remember from when he was a kid, in relation to hunting, was feeling like the odd man out. Dean's support made him feel maybe he wasn't as bad at this as he thought. But he didn't know if that made him feel any better, because he wasn't sure he wanted to be good at it.

"Frankly, I'm not sure what you can do that we couldn't. Like the girl last week, it doesn't appear any foul play was involved." The sheriff picked up two manila folders and handed them to Dean, who handed them to Sam without a pause. "The coroner's early findings don't show a mark on Tyler, unlike your partner, there."

Sheriff Willis pointed up to Sam's face. Sam reached up and fingered the bruise, ducking his head and shrugging up his shoulders. He couldn't tell if the sheriff bought their story of a chase gone bad, considering the Minneapolis FBI office probably didn't see a ton of action. He also had a moment of panic about the camera, which had to have been viewed by now. For all he knew, his face was all over it. His fingerprints sure as hell were. Willis might be trying to trap them somehow.

"No sign of a struggle?" Dean asked, sounding calm and assured as if the idea of entrapment hadn't crossed his mind the way Sam knew it had.

"Oh, there were plenty of signs," the deputy spoke up, running a hand through his shock of sandy brown hair. "The kid ran for his life."

"But…" Sam started to say.

"Graham, we have no evidence to support that," Willis cut him off. He peered up at Dean and Sam, eyes bloodshot and grim. Sam would bet money, too, that Willis didn't fully believe what he was saying. "There are signs of what could have been a struggle, but it's just as likely nothing. Tyler's got no defensive wounds, neither did the girl. _No one_ killed them."

"You've secured the scene?" Dean asked. Willis nodded. "Good. We'd like to go out there ourselves after we go over the evidence and maybe take a look at the vic…Tyler. Then I'm sure we'll be out of your hair. You're right – it doesn't seem like more than tragedy. There's probably nothing for us to do here."

"Graham, show them where they need to go."

"Yes, sir."

Graham didn't look to be that much older than Dean, and was short and solidly built. He walked them out of the Willis' office, down a narrow corridor to a stairwell at the end of it. The evidence lockup was in the basement, nothing more than a small closet. He and Dean lingered back while Graham checked it out and then led them to an equally small room a few steps down the hall.

"I still say the kid was running scared," Graham said as he set the evidence box down on a short table. "I've never seen…"

Graham stopped, face paling so much he looked seconds from passing out. He swallowed a few times. Sam knew the feeling. He had been ten years old when he'd first seen a dead person, and he was the lucky one in the family. Every single dead body since then made his insides look exactly like Graham did on the outside right now. He gave the deputy a sad, understanding smile, garnering a cleared throat and straightening of shoulders as Graham pulled himself together.

"It's all in there."

The box was small. Dean opened it, and they both looked in. All it contained were the kid's clothes, bagged and tagged. No camera. Sam was confused for a moment, but then relaxed for the first time since they'd entered the building. Only seconds later he started thinking about what might have happened to the camera, because someone on scene should have found it. He shared an look with Dean, who nodded.

"This isn't much to go on," Dean said, holding up an evidence bag, a black school T-shirt with a faded tiger in orange plastisol ink on the back. He dropped it, shuffling through the few other evidence bags halfheartedly.

"No shit, hey," Graham said. "I'm telling you, though, those kids looked petrified, both of them. If I didn't know any better, I'd say they were literally scared to death. I mean, who has ever heard of a healthy nineteen-year-old girl just ceasing to breathe?"

Deputy Graham had no clue how right he was, if Dean's idea was right. Sam's gut told him it was. Sam flipped open the top manila folder, Tyler's. Photos from the scene slid toward the edge, threatening to dump onto the floor. He clapped down on them awkwardly. Graham reached to help him, but pulled back when he saw a glimpse of the images. Sam didn't blame him. Trying not to react himself because a fed wouldn't, Sam studied the photos. Tyler Hokanson had probably been an average-looking kid, maybe even handsome. The ugly visage left from his last moments gave no indication of that. His features were twisted and locked into a mask of fear and horror, terrible to look at even for someone well versed in awful things. Tyler looked like a statue himself, skin gray and body stiff. The boy wasn't next to statuary, though it seemed as if he'd tried to crawl under the same stone bench Will Pendelton had.

"It's rare, but it's got to happen," Dean said, but even he couldn't manage to make his assertion sound reasonable. Graham snorted. "The coroner must have noted that."

"He did." Graham shook his head. "I can't shake the feeling something weird is going on around here. If no one killed these kids, what did? Something had to."

If they didn't handle this tonight, Sam thought maybe the next victim wouldn't be a curious teenager. Many people experienced supernatural things, distantly, and managed to tell themselves they were overreacting. Graham didn't appear to be one of those people. Good instinct for a law enforcement officer to have, even if that particular skill wouldn't be needed much out in rural areas. Not such a good instinct right now. Graham didn't know how to deal with something like this.

"I have to be honest, Deputy Graham. They seem like nothing more than tragic coincidences," Sam said, hoping he and Dean weren't protesting too much. "The best thing the community can do is move forward."

Sam knew all there was to know about moving forward, and yet not moving at all. He was a hypocrite for suggesting that to anyone. Dean stepped closer to him, as if he knew just where Sam's train of thought was going. Sam was projecting. His brother merely flipped a photo toward him, left finger pointing to a dark smudge in the corner.

"Move forward?" Graham spluttered. He narrowed his eyes, gave a shove to one of the folding chairs rimming the table and walked out, muttering, "Goddamned feds."

"Well, I don't think he likes _you_ very much," Dean said.

"He doesn't have to." Sam stared at the door for a moment, before taking the photo from Dean and peering at it more closely. "What is that?"

"I think it's our vengeful spirit. Statue. Spirit statue. Whatever."

It wasn't a very good picture. The focus wasn't on the supernatural, but rather Meghan Schmidt, looking as grotesque as Tyler Hokanson in her death pose. It looked as if she were reaching for a small plastic thermos, a girlish cartoon character's face smiling up at Sam. He put the photo back in the manila folder, image side down. Dean was probably right about the smudge, but Sam couldn't look at it anymore. He hoped the victims' parents hadn't been allowed to see these, or the bodies when they were in that state. Jess on the ceiling, shocked and white and bloody flashed back into his mind, unbidden. He closed his eyes.

"Okay," Sam said, "I don't think we need to confirm this with a visit to the morgue."

To his relief, Dean didn't argue. They found Graham pacing out in the hall, anger still on his face. Dean thanked him for his help, while Sam warded off the guy's evil-eyed glare. He thought it was an extreme reaction to Sam's advice, but then these were extreme circumstances for this small town. He and Dean left the sheriff's office, heading to the cemetery without discussing it. They didn't discuss anything at all, actually, and Sam figured they were probably on similar pages after seeing both the high school boy and Meghan Schmidt's crime scene photos.

The cemetery was taped off when they arrived, but there were no cops on site. Sam was relieved. They could work so much faster if they didn't have to wade around in bullshit. There were a couple gawkers outside the cemetery fences, but their curious stares should be easy enough to shield from. Dean tore his jacket off and wrestled out of his tie, tossing both into the backseat. Sam did the same, draping his over the back of his seat.

"What do you think happened to the camera?" Sam asked while Dean dug through the trunk for basic supplies. It worried him that the cops didn't have it almost as much as he would have worried if they did. "Do you think someone else was out here with Tyler Hokanson?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean said, shrugging.

As far as loose ends went, it unfortunately wasn't the worst thing they'd ever left behind. Still, it left Sam with a bad feeling. He tried not to dwell on it. His attention was quickly drawn to their surroundings, as they approached the spot they'd been at the night before. It looked different in the daylight, but familiar. Dean had the EMF up and at the ready again. Sam hoped there would be more activity than there had been last night, prior to the attack. Nothing more than a few blips came out of the stupid thing.

"Damnit." Dean smacked the EMF a couple times, like he was trying to get it to work better.

"All we really need is to narrow it down. If we can find nearby statues, we can look up histories much easier with names," Sam said. "We don't have to find the specific one right here, right now."

"Yeah. The shape in the photo was over there." Dean pointed, walking toward the general area. "But there's nothing here but plain headstones and flat markers."

"Maybe it's mobile?" Sam thought that was possible, and not the only thing about this case that strayed from the norm. He lifted a hand to his bruised face again. "It must be bound to the cemetery grounds, though."

"Good thing. Can you imagine the havoc it would wreak, stumbling through town like a freaking zombie?" Dean said, mimicking a B-movie zombie.

Sam smiled despite how unfunny the actual situation was.

"Brainnnnz," he said.

Dean laughed, and for thirty seconds the weight lifted off Sam's shoulders. The moment passed too soon. He and Dean got back to work, looking for obvious indicators of an active, malevolent spirit. Actually, all Sam wanted was to get the names on memorial statues close to the point of incident. Dean had been right. There weren't many to choose from, and most were dated well after the first sightings of the weeping statue.

"Here's one," Dean called. "Nothing on the EMF, though."

Sam sauntered over. EMF or no EMF, it couldn't hurt to check it out. The marker was well worn, face nearly eaten away by the elements. If he squinted and tilted his head, he might say it looked as though tear tracks lined the statue's sad face. He raised his eyebrows and glanced at Dean. It was unusual enough to find a statue of a man in a cemetery, let alone one that fit the weeping statue legend.

"Donald Petracek here looks kind of emotional. Write that name down."

He'd have to put it to memory. His small notepad was in the inner pocket of his suit jacket, back in the car. Sam wandered to the left, the direction he vaguely recalled Will had been running from. He stopped in front of a monument, a woman wearing a simple dress, her head covered by an Amish-looking bonnet. Its condition, like the first statue, was somewhat deteriorated. He leaned down, reading the inscription. _Caroline Sellke, 1880-1901_ and underneath, _Sweet Caroline, taken long before her time. Sister, friend, teacher._ Nothing ominous about that, but Sam suddenly felt as though he were being watched. The hair on the back of his neck raised, and he shivered. He straightened, glancing cautiously up at the statue. His imagination was running away from him.

"Got another possibility," Sam said.

Dean came over, frowning at the statue. "I wonder what's with the hat."

"I dunno. We'll find out."

"If we've only got two candidates," Dean said, chewing on his lip. "I don't know why we don't just take care of both of them right here, right now."

"Broad daylight, Dean," Sam said. He pointed to the street, where he'd seen several more people walking by slowly since he and Dean had been out there. "While we wait for nightfall, we might as well find out which one it is."

"Fine." Dean didn't look happy. Sam heard his brother's stomach growl. "You hungry? I could eat first."

"Nah, I'm good." That wasn't true, but he didn't want to take the time. "I saw a café in the student center. It's close to the campus library, so you can grab a bite before you join me."

"Works for me."

The whole way out of the cemetery, Sam couldn't shake the feeling someone or something was watching him. And it wasn't the curious spectators on the street.


	8. Chapter 7

_A/N: I'm considering renaming this story The Fic of Everlasting Info Dumpage. ;) _

_Time for the boys to kill time until its dark and they can kill other things. I **swear**_ _there will be action soon. I mean, there's gotta be, right?_

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 7**

The on-campus café wasn't his first choice for dining, but the food wasn't half bad and neither were some of the female patrons. Dean winked at a girl passing by his table before stuffing the last three fries on his plate into his mouth, appetite quelled for the time being. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the standing cooler filled with sandwiches ready to go, picking out a turkey club and chocolate soy milk for Sam. Food wasn't allowed in the library, but Dean knew his kid brother had to be hungry, or had to eat anyway. If Mohammed wouldn't come to the mountain, then he'd bring the mountain to Mohammed. Nothing good could come from going into a fight without energy. He tossed in a brownie for himself, paying the cashier and strolling out.

The library was only steps from the student center. He crossed the ten feet of sidewalk between buildings, at the library door when someone bumped into him. Dean waved the guy off, but then recognized the person. Will Pendelton gazed up at him, paling white as a sheet before backing away quickly and almost tripping over his feet. Dean didn't even get to say hi. Pleased by the lasting effect of his intimidation techniques, Dean turned back to the library and went in search of Sam.

He found out that the records Sam would need had been archived online, and WiFi was available throughout the whole building. The library wasn't huge, so a quick search found Sam tucked in a corner on the third floor, at a round table and on his computer. More interestingly, he wasn't alone. Libraries were the new bars, apparently. Smiling, Dean approached in stealth mode, edging behind a shelf of books. He hoped to eavesdrop on his little brother and the tall drink of water Sam had befriended at the wake. He couldn't remember her name. Abby?

"So, who are you really? Don't tell me you're a student," were the first words Dean was able to make out. Uh oh. "I know you're not."

"Iris…"

Iris, that was her name.

"How much of what you told me was a lie?"

"Nuh…I…You don't understand," Sam said.

"I understand, you jerk. What kind of creep preys on people at a memorial service? It's sick. It's _wrong_."

The girl sounded borderline hysterical, and it was past time for Dean to step to Sam's aid. Much as a college angst-fest could be entertaining, for some reason Sam really seemed to care about this girl. This particular college angst-fest, therefore, was not so entertaining. He stepped out into the open, seeing both Sam's and the girl's faces for the first time. Both looked alarmed, red blotches coloring their cheeks. Christ almighty, Sam had really never outgrown that stage.

"Hey," Dean said, "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Oh," the girl said, whirling toward him. She was his height. Impressive. "The brother. If you really are his brother."

"You betcha I am, sweetheart. Dean. Nice to meet you." Dean made a show of looking at nearby students. "What do you say we keep this quiet? Calm down a little."

"I will not…"

"Iris, please," Sam said. Surprisingly, Iris trailed off, but she still looked ready to lose it. "Please tell me why you're saying these things. Please tell me why you're so upset."

"Like you don't know," Iris said, voice shaky. "Go to . It's all over campus."

Okay, what? While Sam entered the web address, Dean circled around Iris with his hands up in a show of peace, until he stood behind his brother. The website popped up, all cheesy graphics and music. Dead center on the screen was a video box. Sam clicked play. Dean groaned to himself. He recognized it immediately. It was their footage from last night, framed with cheesy text about ghost hunting. He recalled the look on Will's face only minutes ago, at having run into him.

"That little sonuvabitch," Dean growled.

"Guess he didn't take your threat seriously," Sam murmured to him.

"He will after I get through with him."

"He must have gone back out there and found the camera."

"Maybe he took it while we were all still out there. I left him alone."

"That's your voice, Sam," Iris said, tapping the screen just as the footage became erratic, and Will screamed. "That's what happened to your face. What is going on? I want you to tell me the truth."

"Will you believe anything we say?" Dean asked. He pulled a chair out, gesturing for Iris to sit.

"I don't know. Probably not." She eyed him nervously, before looking over at Sam. Something flickered across her features, going from angry to confused or sad or something indefinable. Iris sat down at the edge of the chair, still looking at Sam with that lost expression. "Maybe."

That figured. Even exposed as a lying liar, Sam could work the puppy dog eyes like nobody's business. His brother looked at him with those same puppy eyes before leaning closer to Iris. Dean felt like a third wheel all of a sudden, and he shifted back to his eavesdropping position behind the shelves. He could still hear everything if he wanted to, but he didn't have to make an awkward situation even more uncomfortable by standing there watching it happen. He heard Sam speaking and Iris' disbelief, but he didn't listen to the words. Sam knew what to do.

He didn't like it, but the sooner Sam realized the impossibility of making real connections with people the better off he'd be. By all rights, Sam should have learned that long ago. All they ever needed was each other. Him and Sam and Dad. There didn't have to be anyone else if they could just stick together. Not for the first time, he wondered why he was the only one to see the magnitude of that.

A sharp "you must be crazy" drifted over to him, pulling him back to the here and now, and he winced. Yeah, the truth was rarely well received. He knew that from firsthand experience. He stepped out from his non-hiding place in time to see Iris leaving, and Sam gazing after her with his face twisted up. Dean didn't say anything for a minute, sitting down in the chair Iris had vacated. Sam eventually pulled his expression back to one of carefully controlled sadness. Dean clenched his jaw.

"That was…awkward," he said, going for lightness in a weak attempt to make Sam feel better.

"Dean." Sam sounded old, tired. It broke Dean's heart, it really did. "She needs time to…never mind. Let's just concentrate on stopping this thing."

He assessed his brother for another second. Dean didn't blame the guy for feeling miserable. It sucked to be treated like a crazy person. Sam had to get his head in the game and seemed to be on that track anyway, so Dean would be here to make sure he stayed on it. He pulled the sandwich and soy milk from his jacket pocket, handing them to his brother.

"Here," he said. "You can focus while you eat."

For a second, Sam looked ready to protest. Then he just nodded and said, "Thanks."

Sam tore open the cellophane wrapper, careful not to make too much noise. Dean watched to make sure his brother was actually going to eat. When Sam had half the sandwich gone, Dean glanced at the computer. It was still cued up to the stupid website.

"If you're okay sticking with the research, I think I need to go do some damage control," he said, tapping the laptop screen. "I ran into that little jerk when I was coming over here. He took off like a shot. No wonder."

"What an idiot," Sam said with his mouth half full. "Dean, this could turn into a circus really, really fast."

"I know." Before they'd be able to put a lid on the streaming video, there'd probably be night vigils planned for out at the cemetery. The confrontation with Sam's friend was plenty of evidence the circus had already started. "Call me if you find anything that can't wait for me to get back."

As Dean stepped from the library, it occurred to him he had no idea where to find Will freaking Pendelton at the moment. The way the kid had run off, he might be in Clontarf by now. Dean snickered at the returning thought of Clontarf, a momentary distraction before he got back to business. Though the campus was small, it wasn't so small he could canvass it efficiently by himself. He couldn't forget the name of the residence hall Will lived in, so he figured his best bet was to stake out the guy's room and wait for him there. He wished he had a gun, because apparently he needed a refresher course in intimidation and Will needed a refresher course in making prudent choices.

He had no problem getting to Gay Hall. Once inside, though, Dean thought he'd never get out of the endless loop of asking stupid kids where to go or if they'd heard of his intended victim. After being misdirected no fewer than three times, Dean finally stood in front of Will's door. Will and Thad's door, technically. He hadn't considered a roommate. He knocked and got no answer. With glances up and down the hallway followed by a quick jimmy, he was in the room. He wrinkled his nose. Even for him the place was a pit. He tried to imagine Sam in such an environment and couldn't.

Dean stood there for a moment, taking in the piles of dirty laundry, a hot plate with something nasty burned onto the coils and fifteen different types of cologne bottles on one of the dressers. No, he definitely couldn't see Sam in a place like this. His and Jess' apartment was more Sam's style. Dean winced, shaking himself out of that line of thought. He pondered a second, unable to decide if he should hide himself for a surprise attack or sit on one of the beds. There was a rattle of keys at the door, so he ducked behind it, his dilemma solved by necessity. The wait hadn't been as long. He kicked the door shut and grabbed the kid.

Except it wasn't Will. The roommate, Thad, shrieked and fairly well hit the ceiling. Which was damned amusing, because the guy was the size of a linebacker. Dean bit back the urge to laugh, making himself look menacing yet non-threatening at the same time. The whole _I'm not going to hurt you but I could_ look that never seemed to work as well as he hoped. He caught his reflection in a mirror and realized why. The only thing translating on his face was the _but I could_, and in turning back to Thad, Dean saw the kid was a second away from tackling him. Despite the guy's size, it wasn't hard to subdue him. Ten seconds of scuffling later, and Dean sat perched on Thad's back, in the middle of the room.

"I need you to do me a favor, Thad. It is Thad, right? Interesting name," he said. Thad whimpered. Dean took that as a yes. "I need you to call your roommate and tell him you've got something for him in your room. Can you do that for me?"

"You're one of the crazy dudes," Thad gasped, voice high-pitched with tension. "Are you going to shoot me?"

"Jesus. No." Okay, so maybe the gun threat _had_ been ill advised. He had to admire Will a little bit for going ahead with publishing the footage, knowing Dean had guns. Multiple guns. "This isn't about you, kid. I just need to talk to Will about something."

"Are you going to shoot him?"

"I'm not going to shoot anyone." Though the urge was growing stronger by the second. "I don't even have a weapon on me."

That wasn't entirely true. He had a blade strapped to his right calf. But apparently his assurance wasn't much of a comfort to Thad, who started wriggling underneath him. Dean sighed. Nothing was ever easy. He grabbed a handful of hair, pulled Thad's head back and leaned in close to the kid's ear. The struggling stopped, but Dean could feel how tense Thad's muscles remained.

"Look, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm not here to hurt Will, though I have to admit I think he deserves it. Now, I'll let you up if you promise not to scream, fight or try to make a run for it," Dean said. "Can you do that?"

"Sure, man," Thad said instantly, relaxing. "You got it. No problem."

The second Dean eased off the kid's back, Thad scrambled for the door. Dean had expected nothing less, of course, and once again subdued the kid. Instead of sitting on him, this time Dean grabbed a tie off the door handle (undoubtedly a signal to not enter), and bound Thad's hands with it, attaching the end to the bedpost. Collapsing on the bed tiredly because the kid had put up more of a fight this time, Dean saw Thad staring up at him bug-eyed, obviously scared stiff. Dean regretted that, he really did, but sometimes the ends justified the means.

"It didn't have to be this way," Dean said, figuring he might as well stick to the bad guy routine for the moment.

He wondered how he was going to keep this from escalating. If Thad or Will reported him, he and Sam wouldn't exactly fly under the radar. And the last thing he needed was posthumous kidnapping charges. Thad didn't even know he was being held hostage by a dead man. Heh. It was kind of funny.

"I asked you politely not to run."

"You're a psycho. Why _wouldn't_ I run?" Thad grouched. Like Will, like roommate with the smart mouth.

"The way I see it, there are two choices. One, you be a good boy and get little Willy back here. Two, you don't and I sit around with you waiting for him to come back, no matter how long it takes," Dean said, picking up one of the many dirty socks piled on the floor. "With this stuffed in your mouth. I like option one. What do _you_ think?"

Fifteen minutes of idle chit chat with Thad later, and Dean was starting to think Will would never show up. All things considered, Thad turned out to be a pretty all right kid once he relaxed as much as a person being held hostage could. He gave pointers on how to score with women, while Thad explained to him why physics was everything. Dean wasn't sure he bought it, but he made mental notes to field test some of the laws for himself. They were in the middle of a game of garbage can hoops, severe handicap given for the tied-up guy, when the jingle of keys came from the door.

"No, man, it's cool," Thad said when Dean picked up the sock to stuff in his mouth. "I won't yell or anything."

Dean looked for signs of subterfuge and found none. If that wasn't proof the Winchester charm worked on _anyone_…. Dean ducked behind the door anyway. Will would probably try to bolt the second he saw Thad shackled to the bed. Closer proximity would mean less work for him in the long run. Will stumbled in, bag unshouldered halfway, halting when he saw Thad sitting next to the bed. The door snicked shut. Dean leaned against it with his arms crossed, blocking the only means of escape.

"Thad, what's going on?" Will said.

"Well, if it isn't little Willy," Dean said. "It's so nice to see you again. We have to talk."

Will spun around, his bag of books hitting the floor with a resounding thunk. The look on the guy's face was something Dean would cherish long after he and Sam put Morris, Minnesota far, far behind them.


	9. Chapter 8

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 8**

The research would have gone even faster if Sam hadn't kept mentally revisiting his disastrous conversation with Iris. He hadn't expected to see her again, and to have it go so badly filled him with regret. Knowing how she felt in losing someone close to her, the last thing he had wanted was to cause her or anyone more pain. That kind of thing weighed heavily on his mind anyway, but he knew he couldn't let it. He had a job to do, whether he wanted that job or not.

And right now, he had to find Dean. Sam knew which spirit was killing people. It had been fairly easy to determine though the records were old and sparse, once he was able to concentrate. He and Dean should be able to take care of it tonight, before anyone else got hurt. The only wrinkle in that plan was Will putting up the website, a surefire way to stir up interest. Sam dug out his cell and speed dialed his brother. It rang four times before Dean picked up.

"_Hey_," Dean said, "_I'm in the middle of something._"

"I take it you found Will?"

"_Sure did_." There was a muffled thump in the background. "_We're coming to an understanding as we speak._"

"Tell me you're not hurting him," Sam said. The last thing they needed was assault charges. This case was getting messier by the minute. Scuffling sounds were the only reply Sam got. He spoke more deliberately, "Dean. Tell. Me. You're. Not. Hurting. Him."

The student worker at the circulation desk caught his words, looking at him with alarmed eyes. Giving her a shrug and a crooked smile he hoped was enough to allay her concern, Sam scooted out of the library before he had to yell at Dean to stop bludgeoning Will to death.

"_I'm not hurting him. Really. Hey, you all done_?"

"Yeah, I got what we need. If you're done, meet you at the car." Another thump, louder this time, and a dim shout. What the hell? "Dean, you're really not hurting the guy?"

"_No, I'm not. I need you to do something for me here, so come on over. I was just going to call you. I got caught up. I'm at the dorm. Gay 2_." Dean paused there. Sam could virtually see the grin on his brother's face, and glared even though Dean couldn't see him. "_Third floor, room 351_."

"I'll be there in a few minutes. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"_I find your lack of faith disturbing_."

"Star Wars, Dean?"

"_Good line, Sam._"

True enough. Sam snorted, clicking his phone shut. He started walking faster, not convinced Dean wasn't doing something unpleasant to Will. He hurried through the picturesque little campus, eyes to the ground after he caught more than one person staring at him. He was being paranoid. It was probably that he was wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day. The website couldn't have circulated that much, and his face hadn't appeared in the vid at all. Still, he tucked his head down like a turtle, shoved his hands in his pockets and lengthened his stride.

Once at Gay Hall he was glad Dean had given him specifics, which helped him loop around to the right wing and floor easily. Sam was surprised to find the dorm room door open when he got there. Not that he doubted Dean's assertion he hadn't beat the crap out of Will for screwing them over. Really. He poked his head in, finding Will, Dean and another kid who was built like a tank playing some crazy game with a rolled up sock, a garbage can and strange positions. Will was doing a headstand at the far wall, lifting his right hand to take a shot at the garbage can and failing.

"Whore!" cried the big kid Sam didn't know. "You're so going down."

"Uh," Sam said. "Hello?"

"Sammy," Dean greeted. "Come on in."

Sam figured out what they were doing. Horse. He'd been off working and feeling like shit about Iris while Dean played a game with someone who'd caused them moderate-to-large problems. The irritation building up in him fizzled when he saw his brother's face, absent of the chronic worry lines Dean had developed about Dad disappearing off the face of the planet. Sam couldn't remember the last time Dean had fun that didn't include scoring with women, just goofing off. He didn't quite understand how Dean could be friendly with someone he'd wanted to kill an hour ago, but he also couldn't hold it against his brother.

"Hey. What's going on?" he said lightly, so Dean couldn't mistake it for irritation.

"Just a second."

Dean moved to the far wall, where he mimicked the position Will had just executed. He made the shot easily, flipping back over and joining Sam by the door in one fluid motion and with an impish smile on his face.

"I got the camera." Dean pointed to the camera where it sat on a cluttered desk. "I also had Will take down the video and put up a message about it being a hoax."

"Actually, I just asked the site owner to delete the post. Not that I had much choice," Will said sourly, betraying the happy-happy-feel-good vibe in the room wasn't entirely what it seemed. He stared up at Sam. "And wow, your face looks terrible."

"Thanks," Sam said, self-consciously fiddling with his sunglasses. "It could have happened to you, or maybe something worse."

Will became uncomfortable and nervous, scooting away from them again. Dean might be all buddy-buddy with the guy, but that didn't mean Sam had to be. He wasn't in the mood to fraternize or make nice, especially with this kid, if he were going to be honest. Dean gave him a shrug and a wry look. It wasn't often Sam got to be the bad cop and Dean the good. He found he kind of enjoyed it.

"Making friends, Dean?"

"Influencing people, Sam." Sam wondered how much of the influence was natural charm, and how much was force. He noticed the big kid had a necktie fixed around one wrist. "But I think it might be a good idea for you to check that Will doesn't have a copy stashed somewhere."

"What, you don't trust me?" Will asked.

"No," he and Dean answered Will as one.

"I'm on it," Sam continued. "I'll check the hard drive and check with the site's webmaster to make sure there isn't a copy out there somewhere."

"I think I'm insulted," Will said. "I told you I took it down."

Sam moved to the laptop on the same cluttered desk the camera was on. Short of wiping the whole computer clean, he wasn't sure he could track down every single place Will might have saved a copy of the vid. A quick look at the history and cookies gave him fairly good ideas where to look, but who was to say it hadn't been snagged and uploaded to a thousand different places by now? All they could really do at this point was hope for the best.

"Look, kid, two people are dead. This ain't a joke," Dean said. "Trust me when I tell you we're being very patient. Kind, even. Now, I like you. I do. You've got spunk. But if you screw with us anymore, I can't guarantee I'll stay nice."

"H-holy shit," the roommate said in awe. "The whole ghost thing, it's for real?"

"It doesn't matter," Sam said absently, listening with a distracted ear. "Real or not, people are dying out there. The last thing anyone needs is to go wandering out in a cemetery in the middle of the night."

Except him and Dean, because, well, that was their job. Even they weren't exactly safe out there, but at least they were prepared for big, bad, ugly things to come at them, usually. Sometimes. Okay, maybe not, but they _did_ know how to fight.

"Like Will did yesterday."

"Exactly like that, Thad. Will's damned lucky we were there, and to repay us he put up a video for everyone to see. It's attracting all sorts of attention," Dean said. Gone was the fun-loving, basketball-tossing good guy, though even while he spoke menacingly, his tone was almost reassuring at the same time. "Now that's not very nice, is it?"

"No, I guess not," Thad said, then rolled his eyes at his roommate. "Jeez, Will. Buddy, I love you like a brother but you can be a tool."

"Hey, you weren't there when these guys were talking all kinds of crazy," Will said. "But I'm sorry now, all right? I didn't want anyone else to get hurt, I just thought it was cool."

"Real cool," Dean muttered, following up with things not fit for civilized conversation.

Will brushed Sam away from the laptop, taking over the keyboard for himself. In a few quick strokes, he did what Sam would have done only after a thorough search and a bit of time – removed several copies of the footage. Clearly their distrust was well placed in Will Pendelton, Sam thought. Sam wouldn't put it past the guy to have kept a copy beyond that, but he had to think that the personal visit from him and Dean finally got through to the guy. He nudged his way back to the laptop and did a quick back check on what he'd watched Will do.

"Sam?"

"I've done all I can," he said, glaring at Will when he bristled and opened his mouth, probably to claim credit. Sam felt mildly satisfied when the intimidation tactics worked, Will cowing without a word. Again, that was usually Dean's shtick. He picked up the camera, putting it in his bag. "I don't think Will here will pull the same stunt again. Will you?"

"No?"

"No?" Dean parroted.

"No. Definitely not. No way," Will amended. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"That's what we like to hear."

Dean clapped Will on the shoulders with force that made Sam wince. Will paled and wiped a hand across his suddenly sweaty forehead.

"It's been great. Wish I could stay to kick both your asses in Horse, but we've got work to do," Dean said.

"Be good, Will," Sam said, pausing for a moment, "Or we'll be back."

With that, they left Will and Thad in scared silence, and worked their way through the maze of rooms to the elevator.

"Well, I think that worked, but we should keep an eye on him until we can get rid of the problem. After that, who cares – the cemetery should be safe," Dean said. Sam nodded. He'd monitor the website. "Nice line, by the way. _'Be good, or we'll be back.'_ I'm going to remember that."

"Thanks."

They continued on without speaking, though Sam had a lot to share. They couldn't risk a conversation about vengeful spirits in the great, wide open, considering how crappy their afternoon had gone. It would be an invitation for more disaster. Unfortunately, Gay Hall was on the opposite side of campus from where they'd parked. Sam knew Dean liked quick escape routes, and in this case he was in agreement with his brother. The longer he spent on campus, the more he was afraid of running into Iris, and the more he thought about running into Iris the worse he felt about all of it. It was illogical.

"Tell me what you got," Dean said when they'd finally steered through campus to the car.

Exposition time, Sam thought. Sometimes he resented that the exposition always fell to him.

"Of the two possible candidates, I'm pretty sure our Black Agnes look-alike is Caroline Sellke. She was a local teacher at a small country school, in the middle of the 19th century when Minnesota was just a territory. She was apparently well loved and respected," Sam said, pulling everything from memory. It wasn't difficult. The story wasn't exactly made of happiness. "Back then, Morris was still a railroad town and there was a lot of flux in population."

Dean waved Sam on impatiently. Sam rolled his eyes. Not only did Dean get to go off to do other things while he was in researchland, but then he acted like a jerk when Sam had to do the obligatory exposition. He couldn't win for losing.

"One spring morning her students arrived at school and found her brutally murdered. I mean _Lizzie Borden took an axe and gave her mother forty whacks_ kind of brutal. The classroom was torn up good, so it's apparent Caroline did not go gently."

Sam didn't mention his theory that some kind of sexual assault had probably also occurred. That wasn't in any of the records he'd been able to find, but forensic science wasn't exactly stellar back then, if it even existed. The thought of it alone made Caroline's death that much worse.

"Damn," Dean said. "Poor girl. And those poor kids. Hello, trauma."

"Yeah, something like that is pretty damned shocking today. Imagine how horrifying it was for the town more than a hundred years ago," Sam said. This example of human depravity made him squeamish. It was so much easier to think evil only came in supernatural packaging. "No one had obvious motive."

"Everyone loved her."

"Everyone loved her," Sam repeated with a quick nod. "So much a local businessman paid for the monument, despite her religious leanings. She would have had a very simple marker. She was a Reformed Mennonite."

"A what, now?"

"It's a religion. Think sort of watered-down Amish. They're still around this area. From what the librarian in town said, they actually own a fair share of the city." Sam shrugged. This wasn't too relevant. "But it explains the bonnet on the statue. Reformed Mennonites today still dress plainly, and women usually cover their hair with scarves. I know you were dying to have that question answered."

"Huh," Dean said, looking thoughtful. "So if none of the settlers did it, who did?"

"The popular theory was that some drifter came into town on the rail, and then left on it, with blood on his hands."

"Pit stop for murder. Nice. Unless someone had a deep, dark, and ugly secret, I can buy that."

"After a few years, everyone else did as well. From what I could tell, they never found out who did it. The mystery of the event got buried by other headlines, life carried on and people moved forward."

"Except for Caroline."

"Right. So fifty years passed, and that was when the reports of the weeping statue start cropping up. By then, anyone who was around when the murder took place was either gone or dead, because no one made any connection. If they had, it would have been all over the place – the newspaper had grown to more than a simple one page bulletin by then."

"What's up with the long wait?" Dean said. "Fifty years is a long time to be dormant."

That had occurred to Sam as well. He didn't have a solid answer for it. Not only was there a time gap, but the fact it started out nonviolent and was now responsible for two deaths was puzzling. It was possible he missed something in the research. Early records were spotty at best, and Sam was lucky to have gotten as much as he did.

"I dunno, Dean. Maybe a spirit with unfinished business doesn't start out bad. Maybe she was in some kind of limbo or something, and it took time before the nasty stuff germinated."

Sam thought of Jess, and their mom. Their mom had lingered for twenty-two years. She hadn't been evil. He wondered if Jess was out there, somewhere, back in Palo Alto. He wondered if someday he'd have to go back there and put her spirit to rest, or if he should have already done so. The thoughts made him ill. He clenched his jaw and looked out the car window. He really didn't feel like talking about it anymore.


	10. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: Sometimes I pretend it's so, but Dean and Sam do not belong to me. Life really isn't fair at all. _

_A/N: Yes, two chapters in one day. Why? I dunno, call it a whim. Thanks to the faithful few who keep on keepin' on with me. It means a lot. Also thanks to LdyAnne again for the alpha and typo-spotting, and Meg for the beta. :)_

**Sweet Caroline, Chapter 9**

The cops drove by the cemetery every thirteen and a half minutes. Dean had frozen his fingers off for the past hour, as he staked out the graveyard in soggy underbrush lining the illustrious College Avenue. So far, the local LEOs hadn't broken pattern and Dean was beyond ready to call it confirmed. Thirteen minutes gave he and Sam plenty of time to get things done and get out, undetected. They didn't need to lug much equipment, which would speed their time. The second the cruiser vanished around the corner for the fifth time, Dean started making his way back to the Impala, parked a good three blocks away. With any luck, Sam had completed his task and was already there.

Dean pulled his jacket tighter, thinking he was going to have to hone up on his computer skills so next time they could flip a coin for the cushy job. Sam had secured the indoor – warm – assignment of clearing their "school records" without contest. It wasn't like it was a job Dean could do half as well as Sam. That whole thing could have waited until after they dispatched Caroline Sellke, but it wasn't something Dean wanted forgotten in an unforeseen rush out of town. Besides, to make up for Sam being the lucky one now Dean planned on making him do the brunt of the work in the graveyard. To even things up. At the very least, Sam was going to play pack mule.

His brother wasn't at the car when Dean arrived. He contemplated calling Sam to bug him about being so damned slow, and rag on him for the snow jinx while he was at it. Dean was no meteorologist, but it _smelled_ like snow was in the air. If he had anything to do with it, they'd be southbound twenty minutes after Sam made it back to the car. A fast in-and-out job was in order. He climbed in, cracked a window and started the car up. No sense trying to demolish a statue with numb hands.

Once warmed up, Dean again considered calling his brother. He wasn't _quite_ sure where Sam had gone on the ride from campus to the motel earlier because he hadn't asked, but he was certain the mental road trip hadn't been fun. Sam had stayed in a funk for a good hour, the kind Dean knew he couldn't fix with antics or food or anything at all. He was still out of touch with Sam, but not so much he didn't understand some things needed to work themselves out.

Especially if the funk was induced by what Dean suspected it was. The list of things likely to bother Sam had one item on it, and was titled "Jessica." Even if it was more immediately about someone or something else, it was always about Jessica in the end. And that wasn't a subject Dean felt qualified to talk to his brother about. It sucked, because if Dean closed his eyes he was once again hit with a memory of Sam at six, looking to him to answer every question and fix every little thing. Of course, thinking about that only reminded him that back then he hadn't told Sam everything, not by a long shot, and he sure as hell hadn't been able to fix everything. Their lives would never be uncomplicated.

He slumped down in the seat. If Sam didn't hurry up, Dean would be the one too distracted for the job. He had to stop thinking of his brother as if he were childlike, because Sam had stopped being that a long time ago. It only did harm to dwell on things that could not ever be again, that probably never had been in the first place.

The passenger door creaked open the second he thought that. Excellent timing. Having one of them mopey nearly 24/7 was enough.

"What took you?" Dean greeted.

"You were right. We shouldn't have even bothered enrolling. It was more work than it was worth," Sam said. "I had to crosscheck a bunch of different systems."

"I figured we'd be here longer."

"Yeah. Me, too." It looked like Sam regretted more than just enrolling them as students, eliminating any urge Dean might have had to say _I told you so_. Sam held his hands out to the heater. "So what'd you find out?"

"The cops are out, but they've got light coverage." Dean sat up, checking his watch. They'd have to wait for the next circuit of the police cruiser to start. "Only one car. It passes the cemetery every thirteen minutes or so. We've got about seven more before he's due by again."

"That should give us plenty of time."

They'd gone over all the information they (Sam) had uncovered regarding this urban legend and established that in most cases it _was_ just a legend. No new facts came to light on how to deal with a real, live killing statue on online sources or in Dad's journal. Sam had gone over it four times, Dean twice. After all that, they both decided the spirit was somehow bound to the statue itself rather than remains, so demolishing it should take care of the problem. Dean felt a small amount of relief for that – the ground was probably still winter-hard. Under no conditions ever could he dig a grave in less than fifteen minutes.

"We should get over there. Let's go smash this bitch," Dean said with a grin.

"Dude." Sam looked mildly alarmed by Dean's enthusiasm. "You're actually looking forward to this, aren't you?"

What could Dean say – smashing things was fun. He'd never outgrown that. It wasn't his fault Sam didn't hold the same childish delights to heart. Sometimes he thought Sam should embrace his inner child; they'd both be better off for it. But then Dean remembered Sam hadn't liked smashing things when he was a little kid. He'd preferred to burn stuff with a magnifying glass and the sun. Dean frowned, disturbed at that image. That wasn't something Sam would turn to for enjoyment, and explained why Dean so often got stuck with the salt and burn. It might be a while before fire was just another part of the job to Sam.

"I love the sound of concrete breaking in the still of the night."

"You're messed up."

"You say that like it's a bad thing. C'mon. Grab the sledgehammers from the trunk, will you?" Dean shut off the car, handed Sam the keys and rolled up his window. He peered at the dark houses, certain he saw a curtain fall back into place. He locked the passenger door and got out, joining Sam at the rear of the car. "I wonder if we should move the car. I think the friendlies might be not so friendly anymore."

"That might just draw more attention," Sam said after a moment. He held both hammers as inconspicuously as he could. "The car doesn't exactly purr."

Pulling the keys out of the lock, Dean shut the trunk lid quietly. Sam made a good point, the Impala growled like the beast she was and made people stare. But having their car investigated or towed due to suspicious townsfolk would put a crimp in his departure plans. It would also be nice to have it a little bit closer to the cemetery, in case they needed extra supplies.

"I think the folks in house number 1395 have already noticed us sitting here awhile. I'm gonna move it," Dean said.

"Okay, if you think it's necessary it probably is." Sam lifted the sledgehammers slightly. "I wish you would have thought of it before I got these things out of the trunk, though."

"Too heavy for you, Nelly?"

"No. Shut up, man." Sam left Dean by the trunk, glaring back at him when he reached the passenger door. He stood for a minute, expression growing ever darker.

Dean smiled.

"Are you going to get the door for me, or what?"

It amused Dean when Sam was such an obvious _girl_. He walked to the driver's side, smiling all the while.

Sam gaped at him, shaking his head in disbelief. He set the sledgehammers down, frowning when he discovered the passenger door locked.

"Dean."

"Hey, I'll meet you there. We've lost another two minutes. You can start while I find a good place to park."

"Dean," Sam growled this time.

"See ya, Sammy," Dean said.

Sam grumbled something about denting the roof of the car, but the threat was empty. The guy only gave him another death glare before slipping off into the night.

Dean opened the creaky car door and slid in, watching Sam stalk away in the rearview mirror. The sledgehammers made it look like he had giant blocks for hands, and he hunched slightly from their weight. He glanced at house 1395 quickly, realizing Sam's shadowed figure would probably look like something out of a horror movie to anyone who didn't know him. The curtain was still down. He shrugged, started the car and pulled away from the curb. He'd spotted a good place to park earlier, so it only took him a few minutes and then he was silently moving through the bushes. He found Sam hidden at the gate, waiting for the patrol to go by.

"They should be here any second now," Dean said as he hunkered down next to his brother.

Before the cop made his inevitable slow drive by the cemetery, though, disruption came from another place – Sam's pocket, as his cell began to buzz. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam fumble for the device. He was about to tell his brother to ignore whoever it was when he saw his brother's face in the bright LED light. Confusion and uneasiness were predominant, with a fair touch of dread. Never a good combination.

"It's Iris," Sam whispered, looking over at him with a worried frown.

What the hell? Miss Never-gonna-talk-to-you-again had sure changed her tune real quick like. Dean didn't have time to shake his head. Sam already had the phone up to his ear. Great. They hadn't even set foot in the boneyard and this was fouled up. On cue, the cop drove by slowly. He tugged at Sam's sleeve. His brother pulled away, disregarding him. Dean shifted, trying to decide if he should leave his bleeding-heart brother out there while he went in to take care of business.

"What? Iris, slow down." Sam's voice sounded hushed and panicky, drawing Dean's attention back. "What do you mean? You're _where_?"

That's when Dean heard a voice. A female voice. And it wasn't coming from Sam's phone. Oh, hell no. This night couldn't possibly get worse.

"I followed her out to the cemetery. She said she wanted to prove you were a whack job. Sam, she won't answer her phone. I didn't know what else to do. Even if you're crazy, you...oh, shit, I don't know what I was thinking."

In the pale, frosty glow of the quarter moon, Dean saw Iris, her hair gleaming faintly copper as she walked directly for the cemetery gates. Well, she was either stupid or really stupid for coming out here after her friend…wait, followed who now? If someone was already in the cemetery and alone, that was inviting disaster. The spirit seemed to go for lone people, but once it got going anything was fair game. He eyed Iris. Dean figured it wasn't a good plan to leap out of the bushes and grab her, but at this point there weren't many options. Sam beat him to it, hurriedly telling Iris to turn around and go back home as he rustled through the brush.

"But Gwen," Iris said, trailing off with a startled squeak at Sam's sudden appearance. She took two steps backwards, dropping her phone. "What…?"

Dean picked up the sledgehammers and followed Sam, keeping himself behind his brother so Iris wouldn't freak out. Freak out _more_. Her eyes were huge, her face so white it almost glowed. His attention wandered to the cemetery, eyes searching for the equally stupid friend. They were at the far gate, away from the road. The statue was on the other side of the graveyard, closer to a side gate too visible for them to use in their quickly turning unstealthy plan. Dean couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything. But then, if sweet, sweet murdering Caroline had the other girl already, she'd be suffocating right about now.

"Sam," he said, "Not to break up the party, but we have to get on this. Clock's ticking."

"I want you to go back to campus, Iris," Sam said, grasping the girl by the arms and pivoting her back the direction she'd come.

"But Gwen's out here somewhere."

"We'll find her. We'll get her home, don't worry."

"I'm not leaving without her."

They did not have time to stand around talking.

"For crying out –" A shrill cry tore through the night as if in response, cutting off Dean's frustrated words.

Sam let go of the girl, turning to him.

Dean tossed his brother a hammer, and they ran without pausing or thinking, calling back simultaneously, "Stay here." He glanced back to make sure Iris heeded the warning, thankful it looked as though she was rooted to the spot. It slowed him down, but Sam would always outdistance him anyway. He collided with his brother when Sam suddenly stopped short and started swiveling his head around like he was looking for something. Then Dean saw the object of their disaffection was not where it should be. Neither was the other girl.

Another cry, and Dean knew where to go. The girl had run for the closest escape. He slapped Sam on the sleeve, taking up pursuit again. Dean saw a massive black shape ahead, somehow much bigger than the statue actually was. He didn't have time to think. The girl was on the ground, her face twisted in terror that he could not allow to become her death mask. She was too close, the thing was right on top of her. The risk of injury by falling debris was one she'd thank him for later. It beat the hell out of the alternative. Dean locked his legs, raised the sledgehammer and prepared to swing.

What he hadn't taken into consideration was a moving target. Sledgehammers were effective tools, but they required exertion and balance. That wasn't easy to come by in a fight. The hammer was halfway down when the statue turned. It swung back at him, clipping the right side of his face. He faltered and then fell, gravity pulling him down with the sledgehammer which had come nowhere near its mark.

"Dean," Sam said faintly, and, "The girl. The statue."

He blinked at his brother, seeing Sam's face contort in a shout, not whisper. His ears were ringing, must be, because Sam was talking more than Dean was hearing. Somehow it sounded like a disco song and also the thunk of concrete hitting dirt at the same time. Sammy swinging the hammer, the girl screaming. Dean scrambled to his feet, reclaiming his own sledgehammer. Everything did a loop. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. The statue moved to him again, unfazed by the blows raining on it. Someone – him? Sam? – connected a substantial blow, shattering its right arm. Not the left, though. The left hit Sam, sent him flying. Dean's brain cleared almost instantly.

"Sonuvabitch," he growled, not sparing Sam the look he wanted to.

He aimed for the goddamn bonneted head, smashing it into a billion pieces. That should have killed the possessed statue, but the thing kept coming at him. Headless. It was all so fucking ridiculous. Before Dean could raise the hammer for another swing, the statue flung its still-intact arm at him. The punch was more than glancing this time. As he _flew_ across the cemetery, the disco bells came back, sounding an awful lot like a young woman wailing.

Dean saw it coming but couldn't do anything to stop. He hit a big pine tree headlong. He'd held onto the sledgehammer the whole time, though he had a crazy, sudden thought it would have done him a world of good to let go of the thing before. In any case, he felt it fly from his fingers, hitting the cemetery fence with a loud clang.

Or then again, maybe that sound was actually his head.


	11. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Blah, blah, I don't own SPN, blah blah._

_A/N: I almost forgot I was going to post today. Thanks again for reading!_

Last time:  
_Dean saw it coming but couldn't do anything to stop. He hit a big pine tree headlong. He'd held onto the sledgehammer the whole time, though he had a crazy, sudden thought it would have done him a world of good to let go of the thing before. In any case, he felt it fly from his__ fingers, hitting the cemetery fence with a loud clang. Or then again, maybe that sound was actually his head._

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 10**

"Dean, you okay?" Sam yelled at his brother, felled by the attacking spirit. Then he added stupidly, "We have to get the girl away from the statue."

Dean blinked at him, too dazed for more of a response than that as he picked himself up. Sam winced at the blood running down Dean's face. They should have expected the spirit wouldn't go down without a fight, with or without the added complication of Gwen's presence. Sam hadn't anticipated a statue would move around, though, let alone how fast this one did. A walking slab of rock shouldn't be able to fly around like this.

As Dean straightened, the statue focused on him again, and away from Gwen. At least that much was going for them, not that it was much comfort. There was no way Sam could let his brother take another blow. He rushed forward, sparing the girl a look he hoped conveyed an unspoken order for her to get the hell out of there. It must have worked. Gwen finally stopped screaming, scooting backward with clumsy, scrabbling movements. He couldn't take the time to haul her away himself, not with Caroline gunning for Dean. Her instinct would kick in even more, and take care of getting her to safety.

Swinging with all of his strength, Sam obliterated the statue's right arm. His effort barely slowed the thing down. He didn't see it in time when its other arm came up and landed a blow strong enough to make him tumble away. He lost his grip on the sledgehammer, heard it scuttle across the narrow cemetery road. Tucking and rolling to avoid serious injury, Sam didn't manage to completely avoid slamming into a large headstone. The worst of the impact was to his right shoulder. The pain was intense, locking his muscles up. He had to breathe through it for several long seconds. Sam shook his head to clear it, but the night was filled with Gwen's cries again and he just wanted her to shut up already. By the time he pushed himself upright, it was only to see Dean catapult through the air headfirst into a tree and slide down in a crumpled heap.

"Dean!" he shouted. His brother didn't move, and the statue was an indistinct block of darkness edging ever closer to Dean. Sam didn't think about being unarmed, calling out, "Hey, over here!"

It was a successful distraction. Dean must have gotten a swing in when he had been down. The statue turned to face him, headless. Except, no, Sam saw a filmy, wavering dark outline where the head would have been, and one where he'd shattered the arm. He started getting a very bad feeling. Belatedly, he searched for his sledgehammer, lunging for it the second he caught sight of it several feet away. His right shoulder protested. It felt like it had been stabbed with an ice pick and made him fumble when he couldn't afford to. He came back up gritting his teeth, finding the statue was somehow practically on top of him already. Startled, he slipped, falling to the ground with a pained grunt. Once down, Sam found he couldn't do more than slide on his back through the cold, damp grass while the statue loomed above.

Sam stared up in horror at the undulating ghostly visage, surprised when he didn't see malevolence gazing back at him, but sadness. It almost looked like it was crying. Confused, he froze, giving it enough time to trap him. Heaviness weighted first his legs and then crept up his body. He struggled for breath, at once trying to shuffle away and pick up the hammer again. Anything for some kind of defense, but neither worked for him. The more Sam gasped, the less air he seemed to get. The pressure on his chest grew unbearable, he felt his limbs going numb. Blood rushed in his ears, his heart pumping as if he'd just run five miles. _Oh shit, I'm dying_, he thought, and tried to call out for Dean to _wake the hell up_. Nothing came out but a pitiful rasp.

"No," he wheezed over and over, the string of words sounding like a bagpipe losing air. Dean would never forgive him for letting a freaking headless, one-armed statue kill him.

Every utterance served only to tax his lungs faster. Sam's vision blurred and darkened around the edges. Through the buzzing in his ears he swore he heard a woman's voice speaking to him in soothing if garbled tones. Death wasn't what he thought it would be and _so sorry, Dean_. Lassitude washed over him. His eyes closed and he exhaled one last time, too tired to even try inhaling.

The terrible calm vanished with a sharp crack, followed by a plaintive howl. Rain, sharp like glass, fell from the sky, cutting nicks into Sam's arms and face. The pressure increased on his right shoulder for one second, then lifted. Sam choked and coughed as oxygen suddenly rushed into his lungs, instinctively trying to curl over onto his side. He flopped as if he was still partly immobile, struggling with something that should have been easy. On his left side at last, all he could do was heave, grappling for air. It took him that long to realize he _could_ move and breathe, and that wasn't quite right. Was it? Black spots slid across his vision, somehow malevolent. His brain relived the last few minutes in images. He saw Iris and Gwen and the relentless vengeful spirit and then _Dean_.

"Dean," he croaked, "Good timing, man."

Sam rolled onto his back, trying to get his breathing under control. The night air tasted like a cold glass of water, shocking to his system and strong with the threat of a late snow. Maybe he had to thank the cold; his bruised shoulder was numbed now. Rustling footsteps grew closer, a face appearing above him. He blinked a couple of times. The creamy tan face didn't belong to Dean.

"Is it over?" Gwen said, her expression manic. She was as breathless as Sam was. Her eyes shifted from him to multiple other points, never landing on one place for more than half a second. "What the hell was that thing? Ohmygod, ohmygod. Are you okay?"

Sam sat up too fast, making his vision swim. Not important. He took in his surroundings quickly. The statue was in pieces, fragments large and small scattered all around, some on him. Gwen bent over as if winded, holding the handle of his sledgehammer, its head on the ground. She was still talking, but Sam couldn't hear her. He found no sign of…no, there, Dean was over by the tree, motionless and face down.

"Dean," he said, ignoring Gwen's frenzied questions.

He stood and stumbled to his brother's side. Sam fell to his knees, leaning down to roll Dean onto his back. Much to Sam's relief, Dean immediately groaned and began stirring. A survey of his brother revealed a nasty cut and swelling on his right cheekbone – they'd have nearly mirror-imaged bruises – but nothing else obvious. Checking for other injuries didn't need Dean's direct involvement, so he let his brother stay semi-conscious. Sam started patting his brother down, searching for any sign of broken bone or internal injury. His right arm wasn't cooperating with him well, so he relied on his left. He'd made it to the right side of Dean's rib cage when his brother pushed at him.

"Hey," Sam said. "It's okay, it's just me."

"Didja get it?" Dean grumbled, his eyes squeezed shut, then when Sam's fingers found a tender spot, "Owwww."

Sam slumped, deeming the question not worth answering. He didn't stop his examination, though Dean's hissing and squirming hindered things. He heard Gwen walk up behind him. He continued ignoring her, simply not having the energy to spare for her yet. As long as she was safe, she didn't matter right now. His concern for Dean coupled with a lingering memory of his last breaths being squeezed out of him were both higher on his list.

"Hold still," he said, coughing when the cold air hit his lungs. "You broken anywhere?"

"I don't think so." Dean didn't seem to have the energy to even open his eyes, but tried to sit up anyway. He groaned and slumped back down. "Just bruised, I think. Or cracked, maybe."

Sam moved to Dean's arms and legs. His brother stopped fishing around altogether and, to Sam's surprise, submitted to the treatment without whining. Actually, all that meant to Sam was that his brother was hurting and he hated that. A simple smash and run had turned on them…mostly Dean. It didn't take much to determine his brother's limbs weren't busted. Resting on his haunches, Sam was caught off guard when Dean muttered a loud curse, and sat up as if completely uninjured. Sam reeled back, almost falling.

"Damnit, Sam," Dean said, pressing forward into Sam's space. His brother caught and held his forearms in a tight grip.

Dean looked pale and shaken, but also grim. Sam frowned, trying to dislodge from Dean's grasp. He'd spent enough time tonight unable to control his own limbs. His right shoulder gave a twinge. For having been tossed around like a beanbag and completely out of it a few minutes ago, Dean's hold was strong, though, and Sam couldn't go anywhere but where his brother maneuvered him – into a seated position. Worriedly, Sam wondered if the blow to Dean's head had done some damage.

"I'm fine, Dean. What…?"

"What happened?" Dean asked, but not of him. His eyes were riveted up and behind Sam.

Sam was so confused.

"Same shit, different cemetery," he answered anyway.

Dean pursed his lips, looking unhappy. Wrong thing to say, apparently.

Sam guessed again, "Nothing happened?"

"It didn't look like he was breathing. He wasn't moving and that _thing_ was standing above him," Gwen said, her words tumbling over themselves. She sounded far away, or maybe weak.

Sam thought maybe he should have checked to make sure she was okay.

"So I hit it with the hammer. That's what you guys were doing. I'm sorry, was that wrong? I'm sorry. Is he all right?"

"Don't be sorry. You did the right thing. He'll be fine." But Dean scowled at him, eyes narrowing as if he were deliberating.

Sam just wanted someone to tell him what the hell was going on. He wouldn't _be_ fine because he already _was_ fine. Dean was the one who'd been beaten up. Sam blinked, the world looping a little when his eyes opened again. His brother's face rippled. Odd. Both his arms started feeling heavy, like his bones were made of Jell-o.

"We don't have much time, but I really think you should lie down, Sam. Just for a minute." Dean transferred his hold to Sam's shoulders, gently easing him down.

"Why?" Sam fought to stay upright, suddenly scared as well as confused.

"You've got a big chunk of rock in your shoulder," Dean said, giving Sam a bleak smile. "You're bleedin' all over the place, man."

His first impulse was to deny it. He'd remember getting impaled. That wasn't the kind of thing that happened to a person without his knowledge. Instead, Sam peered down at himself. The angle was uncomfortable, but he could see a sizeable gray mass sticking out of his jacket, just below his collarbone. The material surrounding it was dark, almost black. The moonlight gave it sheen. He knew it was blood, but it didn't really look like it.

"Huh," he said.

The world phased into slow motion. Sam sagged, falling out of Dean's hold on him and flat onto his back with a jarring thump. It was as if a switch had been thrown. Pain kicked in, and icy hotness tickled over his whole body. His thoughts jumbled together in his head. Though he'd seen the wound for himself, he was still very, very confused. He heard Dean saying something, but it sounded like his brother was speaking into a paper towel tube. Or like the adults always sounded on Charlie Brown cartoons. _Wah-wah-wahwah-wah-wah-wah_. That was how Dad always sounded to him. Sam smiled. Then he gagged, because the stars above were swirling crazily. It looked and _felt_ like they were falling down on him.

"The sky is falling," Sam said.

"Stay with me here, Chicken Little," Dean said, face appearing above Sam. Well, at least his brother wasn't speaking cartoon language anymore. Dean pressed his lips together, leaning down. A hand was on Sam's cheek, concerned eyes scrutinizing him. "It doesn't look that bad, but there could be shit in there I can't see. I think you're just shocky."

The back of Sam's throat burned with sickness. He couldn't move his body no matter how much he needed to. He coughed, turning his head to spit. The hand withdrew from his face, Dean easing him onto his side. Pain rocketed through him, as the motion made him sicker and he couldn't keep from retching in earnest. Sam still didn't understand how he'd gone from okay to feeling like total crap in less than a minute. When he felt better again, he was going to be embarrassed about that. For now, he was grateful Dean was there. Sam couldn't even save Dean without needing saving himself. Dean was probably tired of saving him all the time. Dean probably had a frigging red cape somewhere in his wardrobe.

"Don't be stupid, Sam."

"What?"

"You're saying things you wouldn't if you weren't in shock," Dean said, guiding Sam onto his back again. "But I suppose that's better than not talking. So actually go ahead, keep telling me how awesome I am."

Sam didn't realize he'd been saying anything out loud. He stopped. It was too cold, anyway. Something heavy and warm draped over him. Sam shivered, blinking slowly. He smelled leather and gun oil. The stars were still falling on him. They didn't hurt, though, so it was okay. They were just cold and wet.

"It's snowing. I told you, you jinxed us, dude." Dean hovered over him, blocking the moisture. The gash on his brother's face bled moderately. "We need to get you out of here. You think you can walk?"

"Shouldn't we call for help?" Someone else's voice came from nowhere, really perplexing Sam. "I think we should call for an ambulance."

"No, it's done now. He'll be okay," Dean said, turning to speak to that other person Sam thought he should remember but didn't…oh, that was right, Gwen.

Sam closed his eyes, fading a little bit.

"He's had worse."

"But, you, but," Gwen said. It sounded to Sam like she was as confused as he was. "But you're hurt, too. You're bleeding."

"It's a scratch." A cool hand on Sam's cheek, jostling. "C'mon, Sam, let's get you on your feet."

The reminder Dean was injured woke Sam up. Not much, but enough. He opened his eyes as Dean tugged on one shoulder, grunting softly from the exertion and probably the aggravation to sore ribs. Sam propped himself up on his good arm, shuffling to lend his brother at least some help. The pain from his own injury was there, but had luckily started numbing again.

"I'm good," Sam said. "I'm up."

"Not quite, but we're getting there," Dean said directly into his ear, an exhaled gust tickling. Dean had his arms around Sam's shoulders now, close by necessity. "Give me a hand here."

"I'm _trying_." Dean was so bossy sometimes.

"I wasn't talking to you, Sammy." But who else…oh, Gwen was there. Sam knew that. "Just kind of boost him up. I'll do the heavy lifting."

Except Dean had cracked ribs, and Gwen was small. Sam didn't want his brother to exacerbate his injuries by helping him to his feet. He tensed his legs, bicycling them in an attempt to get them under him. With Gwen at his left side and Dean on his right, they pushed, pulled and prayed Sam to his feet after only a minute of careful trying. The world looped again, but Sam glanced over at Dean and grinned at their success.

"Frankenstein lives," Dean said.

Frankenstein might be living, Sam thought, but he wasn't quite ready to walk. His legs were unsteady, making him list to the left where there was less support. Tucked under his arm like a buttress, Gwen reacted the only way she could, shifting her body weight and reaching up to steady him. Her hand slapped down somewhere on the right side of his chest. Sam wasn't sure where exactly. All he was aware of was renewed agony, an intense bright light consuming everything, and then finally he was aware of absolutely nothing at all.

_Whoop! Was that a bait and switch? Don't worry, Dean girls. This ain't over. :)_


	12. Obligatory Hospital Scene

_Disclaimer: If I owned them, I SWEAR I wouldn't keep them bound in my basement. Honest. **crosses fingers** Okay, this is probably why it's best I don't own them. _

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! My new goal is 30 reviews. Tee hee. Also, my motto is: whumping is like dessert - there's always room, but sometimes you have to rest a bit first._ _  
_

**Before  
**"_Frankenstein lives," Dean said. _

_Frankenstein might be living, Sam thought, but he wasn't quite ready to walk. His legs were unsteady, making him list to the left where there was less support. Tucked under his arm like a buttress, Gwen reacted the only way she could, shifting her body weight and reaching up to steady him. Her hand slapped down somewhere on the right side of his chest. Sam wasn't sure where exactly. All he was aware of was renewed agony, an intense bright light consuming everything, and then finally he was aware of absolutely nothing at all._

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 11**

Dean's head hurt, and his vision was hazy at best, double at worst. Contrary to popular belief, people generally didn't get up and run around after a head injury in real life, not the way they did on TV. Any blow that made someone black out was serious, requiring specific care. In this case, though, the hole in Sam's shoulder trumped Dean's likely concussion. He knew that. So he pushed past the blurry vision and the significant pain from cracked ribs to get Sam to his feet. For his efforts, Sam rewarded him with a heartfelt, if lopsided and grimacing, smile.

"Frankenstein lives," Dean said, acknowledging the victory with mild sarcasm.

Getting Sam vertical was only half the problem, of course, and Dean hadn't properly accounted for the girl. He should have had her on Sam's right, a mistake he could blame on the head injury. This occurred to him only as their situation went from tolerable to bad less than five seconds after Sam was standing. His brother tipped to the left and the girl automatically braced, putting up a hand to keep him from collapsing on her. Two things happened simultaneously: Sam made a strangled gurgling sound before going limp, and white, glaring light shone on them from ahead. There was nothing Dean could do. Blinded by the light and already not up to his usual physical standard, he was lucky Sam didn't drag him down to the ground.

"Stop right there," a familiar voice called out.

Dean heard, but he didn't heed. He didn't care who was giving the order; all that mattered was making sure Sam was okay. Dropping to his knees caused the pain in his head and ribs to ratchet up a notch. He ignored it, leaning and trying to roll Sam onto his back. Remnant spots from the flashlight moved across his field of vision, nauseating him. The falling snow didn't help with that, either, eddying around in a big swirling mess. He swallowed a couple times and wished the visual effects away. It didn't work, but he could finally start to see more. Not that it was much of a victory, because all he saw was Sam lying there all heavy and floppy. The beam of the flashlight zigzagged all over the place.

"Oh, crap, not another one," the newcomer said.

Gwen knelt on the other side of Sam, helping Dean to get his brother turned over. He slapped Sam on the face, provoking a low moan and a head wobble. Dean heard the new person speaking in hushed, rapid tones and there was a loud burst of static but he couldn't be bothered. He inspected Sam's shoulder wound, rock still embedded, and it didn't look worse to him. Of course, it didn't help that he was seeing double and everything jittered around like he'd just come off a spinning carnival ride. His energy was rapidly waning; adrenaline could only fuel him for so long. He needed to get moving again, or he'd be flat on his back next to Sam. Without the company, they'd have probably been back at the motel by now.

"You kids shouldn't be out here. I've called for backup and an ambulance."

The flashlight beam bobbed around again. Dean knew why the voice sounded familiar. The cop patrol. He hadn't forgotten about it, but he'd really hoped one thing would go their way and they'd avoid getting caught. He should have known better. Worse, not only had they been busted, it was Deputy Graham who stared at him with a doughy, confused expression. Dean squinted, holding an arm up to block the light. He and Sam were stuck between two lies now, playing student to the girls and feds to the cop, and at the moment he didn't feel up to plugging plot holes. Sam was better at that sort of thing, more believable and earnest, but he was out of commission. Dean looked down, just to make sure. Yeah. Sam wasn't going to be any help. A hospital visit was unplanned and unwelcome, but they were screwed on that front.

The small town cop shuffled a few steps closer, peering at him, and then at Sam.

"Agent Morrison? What're you doing out here?" Graham said. He gave a low whistle when he caught sight of the rock in Sam's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Agen…?" Gwen started, standing up.

"I asked them to come," another voice chimed in.

Dean's head began to swirl even more. He tried to stay on topic, but never lost his line on Sam. The new, new person walked over to stand next to Gwen. Thanks to Graham flashing him in the face again, all Dean saw was spots.

"What? Iris?" Gwen again, but that answered the question about the newcomer's identity.

"They were on campus today, asking around. They gave me their business cards. When my friend came out here, I panicked and called them," Iris said, with calm Dean found impressive. "I didn't want Gwen to get in trouble."

"Calling the FBI instead of us meant not getting in trouble?"

"FBI? I thought they…"

Gwen just didn't know when to be quiet. Dean did his best to glare at her, as if that would work, but Iris again stepped up to the plate, doing something that made Gwen jump and also stop talking. He didn't know what, and he didn't care. He also didn't know why Iris was on their side, and he didn't really care about that at the moment either. Sometimes gift horses shouldn't be looked at in the mouth, or whatever that saying was. Dean leaned over Sam again, unsteady, before glancing up at Graham.

"Okay, whatever," Graham said, baffled, "You're here. But _what happened_?"

"We had an, uh, a small accident," Dean said.

"A small accident." Graham seemed to have a thing with repetition.

"Yeah." Dean knew it was a weak, half-assed story. He couldn't come up with anything better, so he went with his gut, clutching at his head and exaggerating how crappy he felt. It wasn't that much of a stretch, really. He made himself sound absolutely pathetic, "Can this wait? My partner's bleedin' out, here."

"Right."

Dean hoped the ringing he heard was from ambulance sirens, only in the sense that if it wasn't, then his head was worse than he thought.

Deputy Graham mumbled something about directing the EMTs, leaving the scene to go flag down the ambulance.

Returning his attention to his brother, Dean was happy to see Sam's eyes open. It was amazing how a little evidence Sam was back among the land of the conscious made him once again forget about his own aches and pains.

"Dude," Dean said, "First you get saved by a girl, and then you pass out? You're getting soft."

"Shut up. I'm bleedin' out, here, remember?" Sam groaned.

The words were slurred so that Dean barely made them out. He was unlucky enough to be able to decipher injured Sam-speak fairly well. What was lucky, though, was that Sam seemed lucid for the moment. Truthfully, Dean was still concerned about shock. He was starting to consider that professional medical help wasn't such a bad idea at all.

"What is going on?" Gwen hissed. "Why does that cop think these guys are FBI?"

"I don't know," Iris said. "Because maybe they are."

"_Are_ you FBI?" Gwen turned on him, panic and confusion all over her face. "So you were just pretending to be college students?"

 

"That's right," Dean said, latching on to that idea. It'd work as well as anything at the moment. "We were undercover to rule out any campus-related foul play with the first victim."

"Meghan." Gwen blinked a couple times. "I guess that makes sense. Sort of."

He might have sold Gwen easily despite the gaping holes in the story, but Iris stared down at him and Sam with skepticism. She didn't say anything, though, and before Dean had the chance to make sure she'd back up the crappy cover story, the EMTs descended upon him and Sam. Everything became a blur of activity, invasive hands and questions. He went with the flow. For the first time in his life, Dean was gladder than not to be going to the medical center, and he wasn't even actually glad. Neither he nor Sam was critically injured, the gig was over, and it would give them a needed break. It was a Winchester spa day, when other people would tend their injuries instead of old-fashioned family doctoring.

But none of that meant he had any intention of losing track of Sam. His insistence on riding along in the bus was met without the customary annoyance that he usually got, due to the blood all over his face. He'd have insisted anyway. He had to be there not only because he was concerned about Sam, but to explain away any shock-induced craziness his brother might spout off. The artificial lighting in the ambulance was more revealing than the snow-fogged moonlight. The second Dean climbed on board, his assessment that Sam wasn't critical wavered.

Sam's face was gray. There was more blood than Dean had been able to see before, oozing down his jacket from shoulder to waist. Now that he could see more clearly, double-vision aside, one look at the piece of stone in his brother's shoulder made him realize how much bad luck had played in all of this. What were the chances, really, of a cement statue shattering and that one of the pieces would be sharp enough to impale someone? For regular people, Dean would venture slim. For them, the chances were much better. Obviously. He grimaced when they cut away the sodden jacket, Sam arching ever so slightly in pain.

The EMTs weren't rushing or anything, so Dean knew on a base level it meant things weren't as bad as they looked. Somehow that didn't stop his heart from racing or fear from prickling at the base of his skull. He opened his mouth, catching himself before he said _but he's going to be okay_ out loud. He didn't want to alarm Sam or, well, himself, by verbalizing concern. He didn't have the chance to speak anyway. The ride to the medical center took all of four minutes. From the time he readied himself to speak to the time he changed his mind, the doors of the ambulance were opened, Sam was rolled away somewhere Dean wasn't permitted to go, and _he_ was in an examination room with a cold pack pressed to his face, thinking, _so much for keeping an eye on Sam_.

Everything from that point started to blur in that way a visit to the emergency room only could induce, so Dean couldn't say how long it was before he was left alone in the waiting area. He had the routine down so pat he didn't even consciously remember answering the standard questions, nodding about the standard post-concussion care or acknowledging he understood the standard recommendations for cracked ribs, refusing to stay overnight.

Now that he did sit in the waiting area, it occurred to him how sad it was he could probably do most of the ER jobs himself. And without the pesky medical degree. It also occurred to him that he hadn't seen or heard anything about Sam. Dean jostled his leg, nervousness edging toward worry.

The waiting area was empty, which wasn't a bad thing. He half expected to get a visit from the cops any second, and he'd rather see how Sam was before having to deal with the cover stories. The nurse behind the desk busily worked on the computer, tossing him glances every so often. She was in her mid fifties and scowly, making Dean disinclined to chat her up for information. His head still hurt too much for the diplomacy that would require.

"Jim Morrison? Agent Jim Morrison?"

Dean looked up at a paunchy, short man in light blue scrubs. He stood slowly, once again ignoring the pull of his sore ribs. Slightly stooped, he was still several inches taller than the physician.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean said.

"I'm Doctor Nuber. I worked on Agent Krieger."

"He all right?"

"He'll be fine," Doctor Nuber said, smiling briefly. "We were able to take care of him down here. The puncture is fairly shallow. There was debris in the wound, so we did a simple debridement, no need for surgery. We discovered an extensive, deep bruise on the back of the same shoulder, which likely exacerbated the pain of the puncture. Blood loss was moderate, as was shock. Both will take a bit of time to recover from, but I don't foresee any complications."

"Mind if I check in on him?" Dean asked.

"I thought you'd ask that. Not at all, for a few minutes. Even though we've got your partner doped to the gills…" Dean raised his eyebrows. Nuber peered up at him, smile more genuine this time. "That's a technical term. The pain medication hasn't stopped him from asking to be released AMA. I've stalled him, hoping you can talk him out of it. I'd like to monitor him until mid-day, at least. The gash wasn't life-threatening by any means, but it wasn't on par with a scraped knee, either."

Despite himself, Dean grinned. If Sam was already asking to be released, that meant he was fine. He'd known that, of course. It was good getting confirmation.

"Though by the looks of you," Nuber continued, "Maybe you won't be of much help. You should be in a bed yourself."

"Why, so someone can wake me up every two hours to make sure I know my own name?" Dean scoffed, but it hadn't been that long ago he'd had to think hard to remember he was an FBI agent to these people. "Nah, it's nothing I haven't had before. Never had problems with memory loss or Jekyll/Hyde symptoms. It all comes with the badge."

Nuber shook his head and muttered something about thinking cop bravado was only on movies and TV, as he ushered for Dean to follow him down the corridor.

Dean didn't care what the guy thought. All he cared about was seeing for himself that Sam was no longer ashen and sick-looking with pain. In hindsight, Dean maybe shouldn't have scoffed at the ridiculousness of taking on a killer statue. It didn't seem all that funny anymore, especially not when he rounded the corner and saw Sam wasn't fit as a fiddle and ready to play.

The doctor did a quick check, then gave Dean a meaningful glare as he left the room.

"Hey," Dean said.

"Hey," Sam said, squinting up at him. "You look like crap."

His brother was one to talk. The bloody jacket might have been replaced with a hospital gown and the wound out of sight under a big bandage, but any idiot could see Sam was going to need a day or two before he looked like anything other than shit on toast. Part of that might be the meds. More of it was not. Sam's skin was too pale beneath the still-vibrant bruise on his face, and Dean had had enough impalement injuries to know the pain was unpleasant but bearable. No medication he had experience with ever fully knocked out the ache.

"I look better than you, wiseass." Dean tapped the edge of the bed. "No matter what happens, I'll always be the handsome one."

Sam laughed, rolling his eyes. "Whatever you have to tell yourself, man."

"Seriously, Sam," Dean said after a second, "You okay? The doc wants to admit you."

"Yeah, I'm fine. They took my damn pants off, and my shoes," Sam said, making random observations. He shifted, rolling to the left side with all the speed of an eighty-year-old. He grunted as he managed to slide his legs off the bed and sit upright. "We can get out of here any time."

Taking in the increasing pallor of Sam's face, the faint glisten of sweat on his forehead, Dean doubted his brother was really up to standing. No way was he getting to the car on his own. Dean was tempted to back the doctor's forcing Sam to stay for observation. As much as he wanted to avoid any interaction with the police, he wasn't sure he was up for a middle-of-the-night drive himself. The throbbing in his head was still there, aggravated by the bright lights and antiseptic smells. It might be better for them to take the time getting the story straight and maintaining their FBI alter egos than to end up crashing a few miles down the road.

"We could do that," Dean said, unconsciously reaching out as Sam wavered. From the way his brother shook beneath his touch, Dean verified there was no way Sam was as ready to go as he wanted to be. "Or we could hang out, just till morning. You can get some sleep, let the meds kick in more."

"Dean…"

"C'mon, man. We both know you feel shitty."

Sam glared up at him. Dean sighed.

"All right, my head's still killing me. I wouldn't vote for sticking around unless I thought it was the best option, you know that." Dean gently pushed Sam back down on the bed. The ease in which he succeeded spoke more than words could have. "We'll get our stories straight, deal with the cops, and by then we'll both be ready to go. Okay?"

Sam looked like he was trying to pout, but in his current condition he couldn't pull it off. They held a wordless battle of wills, which Dean had no doubt he'd win. He always won. It was in his job description as the big brother.

"Okay," Sam said sullenly, crowning Dean the victor.


	13. Chapter 12

_Disclaimers still stand._

_A/N: Thanks again for reading, reviewing or favoriting. :) I meant to get this chapter out earlier, but my brain has been sucked into a black hole lately. I just discovered that after receiving editing, I uploaded the same chapter twice and it took me forever to fix, due to the brain black hole. It also just took me three tries to spell the word "chapter" correctly. Blah. But it's Friday. It's a long weekend (for Americans). I'm getting really, really nervous I'm not going to have the final parts ready to go when I should and I don't want to leave people hanging. **chews fingernails **But enough kvetching. I must soldier on, right?_

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 12**

Sam hardly ever won stare-downs with Dean. He wasn't really disappointed this time wasn't any different. Sitting up had sapped all of his energy. Temporarily. He just needed a few minutes. The hole in his shoulder wasn't the worst injury he didn't remember getting, but Dean was right. There wasn't any real reason to rush out of there. He was tired of always rushing. It was all he'd done since joining up with Dean again. Since Jess. Though, even at Stanford and even with Jess, he was always rushing to stay ahead of freak and maintain _normal_. All rushing seemed to do was make things even worse. He felt tired.

"Okay," he said when he could no longer put up a fight.

He must have looked even worse than he felt; Dean's shoulders slumped slightly in relief. Sam hated being the weak link so much he almost took his concession back. Sometimes he wished he could be more like Dean, who, despite the confession of a lingering headache, was on his feet and ready to go. But now that Sam looked at his brother more closely, he noticed fatigue lines around Dean's eyes. There was puffiness below his good eye, purple and blue beneath his bad eye. They might be sticking around because of him, but they both could use some recoup time.

"So, what happened out there?" Dean asked, pulling up a chair and easing down into it. "I don't remember much after I hit the tree."

"Much?"

Sam gave Dean a disbelieving look. Time hadn't meant much when they were in the thick of it, but in Sam's mind his brother had lain there unmoving forever. Minutes might have been hours, as far as he had been concerned.

"Nothing. I remember nothing."

It was all a blur to Sam as well, but cleared as he began recounting. For him it had gone down in flashes. The need to keep Dean out of the line of fire. The lightning-quick attack of the very solid spirit. The suffocating heaviness pressing down. Sam winced at the angry face Dean pulled at hearing that. Had his head not felt thick from the pain medication, he might have left that part vague, or out of the story completely. Now they knew exactly how a vengeful spirit statue went about killing, though. It was something to add to their wealth of supernatural knowledge. Sam forged ahead, expecting Dean to tease him when he explained Gwen saving him. None came, but he did get a feeling of déjà vu, like Dean had already made fun of him for getting saved by a girl. It might have happened for all he knew. Like Dean, his memory was faulty beyond a certain point.

"Then I went to make sure you were okay. I get fuzzy after that," Sam finished sheepishly, looking to Dean to fill the blanks.

"Oh, that's when the fun started. First you swooned like a southern belle with the vapors…"

Ah, there was the making fun.

"Dean."

Dean ignored him, holding up a finger. There wasn't any humor in Dean's expression about the southern belle crack, which Sam took to mean his brother didn't really find Sam collapsing due to blood loss terribly funny. He was quickly becoming re-fluent in worried Dean-speak, not that anyone would have to be well versed to figure that out.

"Before I could get you out of there, the cop on patrol showed up," Dean continued. "In a coincidental twist of fate, it turned out to be Deputy Graham, and he had Iris with him."

"Iris was still there?"

"Yeah. Good thing, too. I think the other girl would have screwed things up by blabbering, but Iris covered. She said she called us. We owe her for that one. Graham went off to flag down the ambulance he'd called and now here we are. One of the girls assumed we were on campus as FBI agents posing as students, and that made some sort of sense so I went along with it."

Sam was unclear, though Dean's story was concise. The pain meds might have been making him tired, or maybe it was because it was the middle of the night. Either way, he didn't have the energy to ask for more detail. He supposed the only important point was they were in the emergency room instead of the motel because they'd been caught in the act. Something lingered at the edge of his own memory as well, distracting him. He couldn't remember what it was, he only had a strange feeling it was significant.

"Okay, we've got the blanks filled well enough," Dean said, shifting around in the chair stiffly. "We're going to have to come up with a reason for being out there with sledgehammers and how you ended up with part of a statue in your shoulder. Just in case we can't avoid the cops."

"We had an accident?" Sam offered.

"That's what I said when they asked." Dean gave him a wry smile. "It was the best I could come up with. My bell was still ringin', if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

Sam yawned. He hoped Dean wasn't relying on him to be useful. At least it wasn't likely they'd get hauled off for grave desecration this time. Their fake federal agent status should make getting caught in a cemetery more legitimate, given the local investigation. The same thing couldn't be said for Iris and Gwen. The tiredness faded. Oh, shit. Iris and Gwen…. Without thinking, he sat up and regretted it instantly. Large black spots oozed across his vision until he squeezed his eyes shut to block them out. Pain thudded dully through his shoulder. He flopped back down, breathing harshly. Something heavy clasped on his arm. For a fraction of a second, he gasped, panicking in the unwelcome memory of suffocation, and, inexplicably, sadness.

"Hey," Dean said, close to his ear. "Take it easy. Just breathe through it, Sam."

The pressure lifted from his arm, but Dean's voice was all Sam had needed to bring himself back to the present. He calmed down right away, feeling foolish.

"Screw it, I'm getting someone. Just keep breathing through it."

"What is this, Lamaze class?" Sam said weakly, cracking his eyes open to find Dean halfway to the door.

"Lamaze, ha, ha," Dean said, halting in his tracks. "That's not funny, Sam. You're white as a sheet."

"I'm fine now," Sam said. "It's not that bad, I just freaked out for a second. I'm okay."

Dean returned to his side, but looked like he'd bolt for a doctor at any sign of Sam's distress. A year ago that would have pissed him off, if a year ago he'd been traveling with his brother and father. The pang he felt wasn't a physical one this time. Now Sam was starting to see Dean's tendency to baby him as nothing more harmful than a fierce protective streak. It was sweet and noble, really, but unnecessary most of the time. Unnecessary for him, he thought, but maybe not so for Dean.

"Don't go making any more sudden movements, okay? You've got to give yourself time to heal."

"Thanks, Dean, I got it," Sam said, somewhat grouchily. He might have a new appreciation for Dean's hovering, but that didn't completely negate the irritation.

"What was that all about, anyway?"

The pain faded back to mere annoyance. It had only been a flare up, fizzling fast like the way he could never stay truly angry with Dean for very long. He wasn't about to admit spazzing over some memory, so he shrugged with his good shoulder and half-smiled.

"I sat up too fast."

"No shit. That's not what I meant. _Why_ did you sit up too fast?"

"I was thinking about Iris and Gwen," Sam said. "They're both okay?"

"As far as I know, yeah. They were both confused but fine the last time I saw them."

"Which was out in the cemetery."

Dean blinked.

"With the police," Sam said, giving his brother an expectant look. He was starting to worry the head injury was worse than Dean admitted. He drove the point home when Dean just blinked some more. "Who probably had a lot of questions for them."

"Oh," Dean said at last, straightening up. "Shit."

"I think I'd like to not be admitted here, against medical advice."

There was no way to tell what Iris and Gwen might have said, no way to corroborate a story he and Dean didn't know. The best course of action was to flee. It was Dad's number one rule – if things looked like they could get messy, run. No matter what, leave town. Sam would say this case had gotten messier and messier. He didn't want to chance anything else now that it was all over. That vague, niggling sensation he was missing something returned. He frowned.

"I'll go tell the doctor. He's not going to be happy," Dean said, heading for the door again. He turned back at the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face. "And I should see if I can find the car. You be all right here for a few?"

"Dude, I've had worse than this," Sam said impatiently. "Go."

Sam thought he'd use the time it took Dean to get the car to get himself upright and mobile. It was going to have to be mind over matter. He was still tired from sitting up carefully before, and the pain from sudden movement made him wary. Taking it slow and steady seemed to do the trick, but once he was shakily on his feet he realized something else: he had no idea where his clothes were. A cool spiral of air wafted up his bare legs and fluttered around the hospital gown. Sam spun in a circle, searching for his jeans. His shirt and jacket were probably toast, but the jeans should be salvageable.

"I hear you're still refusing to be admitted," said a male voice from the door.

Jerking slightly, Sam winced and lifted his hand up to press against the thick wad of bandages on his right shoulder. The discomfort eased a little. The owner of the voice took three quick steps to his side, offering a steadying hand. Sam recognized the ER doctor, but only in an uncertain it-felt-like-he-should way.

"I think that's a mistake, but I can't stop you." The doctor frowned at him. "At least let me make sure you understand how to care for your injury, and that you've got enough medication to keep the pain at a minimum until you can get to a pharmacy."

"It's nothing I haven't had before," Sam said gruffly.

"Now where have I heard that recently?" the doctor grumbled. "Oh, yeah, your _partner_, who should also be staying overnight for observation. The first bandage should stay in place for twelve hours. Will you at least come back tomorrow for a follow-up exam?"

Sam nodded absently, but suddenly wished Dean would hurry up. His brother probably hadn't even left the premises yet. He understood the doctor's frustration, but it wasn't helping. He took an unsteady step, ignoring the short, snarky man in the white jacket in favor of finding his pants. Pants were infinitely more important. Sam was aware he was moving like an old man, just as he was aware the doctor watched his every sluggish movement.

"Uh," he said after a few moments of awkwardness. Leaning down, Sam searched the white lab coat for a nametag or something. "Doctor…?"

"Nuber."

"Doctor Nuber, are my jeans around here somewhere? And my shoes?"

"Oh, sure."

Nuber scuttled across the room, returning with pants, shoes, a sling and a bag of personal effects from Sam's jacket pockets in hand. He set the bundle on the gurney, and also a small packet of pain pills.

Sam didn't know how he hadn't seen that stuff. He took the dusty, grimy jeans gratefully, only contemplating the challenge he'd have putting them on when he started to do so. His right arm was useless. Because he had to move without jarring the injury, one-handed dressing wasn't as easy as it could have been. The doctor continued to watch him, making an occasional tutting noise. Sam thought the whole dressing one-handed ordeal would go much more smoothly if he didn't have an audience.

"I can give you a hand, if you need," Nuber said, inching toward him.

"No, thanks, I'm good," Sam said quickly, thinking _please, please, please don't_.

"Are you certain?"

Sam straightened, letting go of the jeans, which he'd just managed to get up to his knees. Doctor Nuber was starting to strike him as a world-class perv. He so didn't need that kind of drama right now. All he read in the doctor's face was genuine doctor/patient concern, though. Slumping against the bed, Sam gave a relieved laugh and closed his eyes. The pain meds must be making him jumpy or something. He reopened his eyes and found Doctor Nuber crouched in front of him, reaching for the jeans with an uncomfortable twist to his features. Sam looked up at the ceiling, trying to decide if he should get over his embarrassment and let the doctor help him get dressed.

"Hey, look who I…"

His brother had to choose that moment to return, Sam thought.

Dean stared, expression horrified, as he finished, "…ran…into. Uh."

On Dean's heels was no other than Deputy Graham, who turned a vibrant shade of red when he took in the scene. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doctor Nuber scramble to his feet with his hands lifted like he'd been caught doing something bad, which didn't help. Sam made sure the hospital gown was still in place, not that it had ever been out of place. He knew what was coming as Dean started grinning.

"Don't," Sam said. "Don't even go there, man. He was hel…just don't."

It took Dean a few seconds of eyebrow raising and mouth flapping open and shut before he settled on a neutral expression. For once, it seemed Dean was going to ignore his immature urges. For now. Sam waved a hand when Nuber tentatively started for his jeans again. As if he hadn't endured enough humiliation. Having bare legs for a few more minutes was okay by him.

"Okay, awkward," Dean mumbled, then cleared his throat. "I, uh, ran into Deputy Graham on my way out. He said he can give us a ride to the car. Isn't that nice? I think that's nice."

Great. Just what they'd hoped to avoid had happened. Dean's sugar-laced tone was proof of his unhappiness. Sam wasn't surprised, though. He could count on one hand the number of times things had gone their way lately, so now didn't have to be any different.

"The girls, are they okay?" Sam asked, hoping he sounded more concerned than paranoid.

"Agent Krieger," Graham said. "Glad to see you're up and well. We already interviewed both girls and took them back to campus."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Agent Morrison confirmed their story. What a strange set of circumstances." Graham seemed unconvinced. "Never would have guessed in a million years the cemetery was in the process of repairing a statue, that someone happened to trip into it…."

"Whoops, I'm so clumsy," Dean said, fingering his bruised face. "Didn't see those sledgehammers someone left lying around."

"And that loosened it off its pedestal, falling directly toward a girl out there in the middle of the night at the spot where her friend died," Graham continued. "Paying her respects, she said. It's really a good thing you acted so quickly, Agent Krieger, and were able to push the girl aside and take the full force of the statue's weight."

Oh, crap, the story Iris and Gwen had concocted was farfetched. Sam was confused why they even had covered his and Dean's asses, so he figured he had no right to gripe about how they did it.

"I'm just glad she wasn't hurt," Sam said.

"Yes, it's all quite strange," Graham said as if Sam hadn't said anything. Given the way the deputy was reciting the story, it was obvious that he didn't buy it. "Plausible, but I don't know what the chances of that all happening just like that are."

"I don't know, either. One in a million," Dean said jovially, fake smile plastered on his face. "Maybe a billion. Life's funny sometimes."

"It sure is." If they didn't change the subject, Sam was sure Graham would dig and dig until he was satisfied. Which would be never. "Listen, do you mind if we finish this conversation after I've got some pants on?"

That worked. Graham glanced at Sam's legs, then the floor, the ceiling and anywhere that wasn't Sam's bare flesh. "Right. We'll wait in the corridor."

"Thank you."

Practically running, Graham led the way out of the room. Nuber hesitated, as if still considering lending a hand, before he opened a cabinet door and drew out a pair of scrubs. Then Sam was left alone. The scrub bottoms would be easier than struggling into his jeans, but were about a mile too short. It was time for Sam to man up and put on his own pants.

Nothing was getting between him and his Calvins.


	14. Chapter 13

_A/N: Tragedy struck in my household tonight. I searched high and low in three major retail stores within my limited access (I'm carless) and could not find a set of Supernatural S3 DVDs **anywhere**_. /wail!/ _I had my heart set on it. I'd looked forward to the purchase all bloody long day. Hopes dashed. Dreams crushed. I sobbed on the shoulder of an FYE employee until it looked like he was about to call security. Then I had to stand for half the bus ride, stuck in a spot I couldn't reach the vertical bars and the horizontal bar is barely reachable for someone of my height. (Seriously, it's painful for a short person to have to reach for the bar to hold onto!). __Once I got home, I ended up crying in my soup, which, btw, was some of the worst soup I've ever eaten. Insult, meet injury. Injury, insult._

_I hear all those mini violins out there, playing a sad, sad song just for me. ;) Enough of the whining, on with the story. _

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 13**

"You guys are all-around lucky. It's also fortunate I was on patrol out there," Graham said, continuing on his extended volley of sarcastic comments. "I've had another car stationed at the cemetery instead of circling it. We don't want anything else to happen."

Dean would give Sam two more minutes, and then he was going to send in a search and rescue team. He'd already maxed out his Deputy Graham time, the other man becoming increasingly annoying with each passing second. It wasn't just him who thought that. After another last-ditch effort to get him and Sam to check in, Doctor Nuber left them with a restrained scowl at the deputy. Graham kept looking at the exam room door, as if that would make Sam move faster. The guy probably hadn't ever sustained an injury, working in a rinky-dink town like this. It could be damned difficult doing simple things like dressing, when injured.

Dean was tired. His head hurt. His ribs ached. This really was the case that would not end, but skipping the immediate departure was no longer a choice. It was a necessity. He didn't think he could drive more than a hundred miles before exhaustion took over, now that he was longer fueled by adrenaline or paranoia. A hundred miles out here in the boonies might as well be a thousand. Especially in the snow. Speaking of, he itched to make sure his car was all right out there in the inclement weather, the thought of her being subjected to such treatment almost as painful to him as the knock on the head.

By the time Sam finally emerged fully clothed and clutching a small plastic bag, Dean was about bouncing off the walls. One look at his brother, though, had him instantly reprioritize. Sam moved with care, and his complexion was waxier than it was before. Gone were the concerns for the car, and the irritation with the Barney Fife wannabe. He stepped toward his brother, not reaching out but close enough to do so if Sam asked him to. He might not be the official brain trust of the family, but he'd clued in to Sam getting bitchier whenever he felt Dean was paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, generally saying the wrong thing…okay, bad examples. The point was he didn't want to make Sam think _he_ thought he couldn't walk on his own. That, and Dean had severe doubts he'd be that much help anyway.

"You ready?" Dean asked.

"Help me with the sling?"

"Sure."

Dean had practice figuring out slings, some of which were like straitjackets. It didn't take him long to get Sam situated, hating the little exhalations of hurt his brother gave. One of the many, many problems with small towns was the lack of 24-hour pharmacies. Even the onsite medical center pharmacy was closed. Dean would have liked to stop to get Sam something for the pain. The drugs the ER staff had administered would only last so long. Graham left them at the door to pull the police cruiser around. Dean glanced over at his brother as they waited. In truth the more they walked, the less hunched over Sam became.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam said without looking or any vocal question from Dean. "How's your head?"

That was fair, but there was the sour face.

"It's good."

Sam snorted.

The more time he and Sam spent together again, the more Dean started looking back and realizing Sam had always been at his bitchiest when Dean was trying the hardest to protect him, or showing concern. He didn't understand how wanting to make everything okay was such a bad thing. He never would. That was all he and Dad wanted for Sam, but it seemed like that was the one thing Sam constantly threw back at them. Dean didn't know if that disconnect could ever be repaired. Sometimes knowing wasn't half the battle. The mystery of Sam might end up having a frustrating, ambiguous ending. Dean found that as long as his little brother was alive and in one piece, he'd take ambiguous here and there.

Deputy Graham parked the car in front of the emergency room door. Given a choice, Dean would walk to the Impala rather than voluntarily ride in a cop car. It couldn't be that far away, but there was no way he was going to let Sam make a trip in the snow. The chances of slipping were too great, and Dean knew the agony of sudden movement against a recent injury as well as anyone. Better than anyone. Plus, Sam didn't have a jacket anymore.

Graham seemed to have cooled on the sarcastic comments, and they rode in silence. As they approached the car, Dean almost told the guy to forget it and take them to the motel instead. Fewer in and outs between vehicles would be better for Sam. Once again, though, they were rendered choiceless. The dashboard radio burst into life. Graham picked up the handset.

"1611," the dispatcher said.

"1611," Graham repeated.

"We've got a 415 at the corner of Nevada and West 7th. 745 Nevada. Possible 594. Someone's turning lights on and off and things are going bump in the night over there. Lots of loud noise."

"Copy that. I'm on my way," Graham ended the brief conversation, giving Dean a sidelong look. "Busy night. You guys mind if I make this quick stop?"

Dean pivoted around to check with Sam. His brother had slouched down, resting his head on the back of the seat. He appeared oblivious. A few minutes being sidetracked wouldn't be so bad. He nodded. It might be interesting to see what qualified as a disturbance of the peace in a place like this. Some college kid was probably playing music too loudly. Whatever it was, Graham could handle it while he and Sam took naps.

When they pulled up to the house, Dean peered up at it. There was no loud music that he could hear. The house looked quiet.

"1611," the dispatcher called again, as Graham opened his door.

"1611."

"That's a 10-22. Situation resolved itself."

"I see that, thanks," Graham said, turning to look at Dean. "I guess not. Let's get you guys to your car. Your partner looks wiped."

Weird. Normally, Dean's interest might have been piqued by the strange non-call. Tonight, he simply wanted sleep.

"Great," Dean said.

From the back came a faint snore from Sam. He was envious, and glad. If Sam was able to sleep, that meant the pain really was tolerable. Dean didn't trust Sam to tell him the complete truth. He was suspicious by nature anyway, but it didn't help the number of times Sam had withheld pertinent information in some misguided attempt to protec…oh. He glanced back at his brother. They were so screwed up neither _one_ of them could recognize what the other was truly saying sometimes. He added it to his list of things to work on sometime that wasn't right now.

They were at the Impala inside ten minutes. His poor car was covered in snow. Graham got out first, whistling his admiration.

"That's your car?"

Ah, crap. The Impala wasn't exactly a regulation government vehicle. Thankfully, the license plates were covered in wet snow.

"The commissioned vehicle is in the shop," Dean said, shrugging.

"Huh," Graham said suspiciously, brushing the snow off the car with his gloved hands.

Whatever. By mid-morning, Graham's mistrust wouldn't matter. He and Sam would be long gone. Dean just needed two hours of sleep. Or three. Stretching, he found that he'd sat in one position long enough to start feeling stiffness in muscles he hadn't realized were impacted by the fight with Caroline's spirit. It sucked getting old. He thought sometimes that hunting was like football – a guy was better in his prime at the purely physical stuff, but the seasoned veteran tended to know enough to avoid the purely physical stuff. Right now, he wasn't ready to be a seasoned player yet, but he wasn't twenty-two anymore. With a predictable pang Dean thought of his father, the ultimate seasoned veteran, and hoped he was okay for the billionth time.

Opening the rear driver's side door, Dean leaned down and poked at his brother, "Hey, wake up. We're here."

"Unh, we were far enough away for me to fall asleep?" Sam said right away, slurring.

"No, Graham had to take a call so we had a detour. It was a false alarm, a fake noise complaint or something." Dean tugged at his brother's good arm. "Let's go, giant."

"Shorty."

"Shut up."

Clad only in a thin scrub top, Sam started shivering before he was halfway out of the car. Dean saw the gooseflesh prickle on his brother's arms and wished he could do something about that, but it wasn't practical for him to lend Sam his jacket for a trek of five steps. Like at the medical center, once Sam was up he did okay. It was the transition points that took extra work. He hoped Sam didn't take it personally, but he was going to sleep in his clothes tonight. Dean drew the line at undressing and dressing Sam. No matter how much Sam thought he was being babied, there were limits. He grabbed the bag with Sam's cell and wallet in it.

Graham had the car's windows all cleared. The snow was heavy and wet enough there shouldn't be any drifting from the roof onto the rear window.

Sam shuffled around to the passenger side, where he stood looking at the door dumbly.

Right, it was locked. And also it would be easier for him to open and shut it for Sam. Dean trudged around, unlocking and opening the door. He tossed the plastic bag inside before Sam started sliding into the passenger seat. As an afterthought, Dean pulled a ratty blanket from the backseat and tossed it on top of his brother. The guy was looking blue around the edges.

"If you guys are good here," Graham said as Sam eased into the car, "I'll take off. We'll want to do some follow-up in the morning, if you're feeling up to it."

"Right," Dean said. "Of course."

Graham nodded, got behind the wheel of the cruiser and took off.

Dean watched him go for a moment, wondering how in the hell the guy could be so cheerful and annoying in the middle of the night. He'd bet his last pool hustling's winnings Graham had volunteered for the night shift patrol to keep an eye on the cemetery. Overzealous cops got in the way on supernatural jobs. Graham was lucky he and Sam dealt with the problem before he stuck his nose somewhere it could get cut off.

"Good riddance to you, Barney Fife," Dean said. "May we never meet again."

Sam tapped the inside of the window, getting his attention. His brother looked up at him with a tired, _what's the holdup?_ expression. Sam was right. Dean was just minutes away from a nice, warm, lumpy motel mattress. It sounded too good to resist at the moment. He quickly let himself into the car, starting it. Sam was already half asleep again, and while Dean wanted nothing more than to lean back and rest his aching head while the engine warmed up a bit, he was worried he'd actually fall asleep and they'd end up spending the night in the car. That would be fine in Florida, but in freaking snowy Minnesota, not so much.

He liked to give his baby a good ten minutes in cold weather, but after five he put her in gear and drove them to the motel. He was glad now they hadn't checked out earlier. Pulling into a parking space, Dean gave Sam a slight shake. His brother moaned and turned his head, but didn't open his eyes right away.

"Oh, no, you don't. I am not carrying your heavy ass to the room," Dean muttered. His headache increased just thinking about that. "Up and at 'em, Sammy."

This time Sam came to with a gasp, followed closely by a mewl of discomfort. For a moment, Dean thought they were going to relive the scene from the hospital. Sam only gasped a few times, then settled. It might have been one of Sam's common nightmares, which had lessened but not gone away. The hair on the back of Dean's neck bristled, as he thought it would be just their luck for Sam's weird ESP thing to kick in when they'd earned a few days' rest.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, it's nothing," Sam said too quickly. "It's just…."

"It's just what, Sam?"

"You ever have the feeling you're forgetting something important?"

"Yeah."

Sam straightened with a groan, contorting to open the door with his left hand, kicking it open with his foot. He clutched the blanket to him.

Okay, they could carry on a conversation while walking. Dean slid out and circled around the car by the time Sam was finally upright. Yet he just knew if he called his brother out on that, he'd get nothing but assurances Sam was fine. Dean sighed.

"What're you forgetting?" Dean asked.

"Well, if I knew that, I wouldn't have the feeling I forgot something," Sam complained.

Twenty more steps, and there would be the room and inside, the glorious bed on which Dean really wanted to be. Unconscious. With a blanket of his own.

"I know that. What I meant was from tonight, or some other time?"

"Oh." Sam shambled into him a little, unsteady on his feet.

Join the group, Dean thought. He set Sam on proper course again. Actually, they were at the door. He made sure Sam propped himself against the doorframe while he fumbled with the key.

"It seems recent," Sam said. "Back at the hospital, I felt it too."

"I hate that."

"I know, right?" Sam tripped over the doorjamb. "It's the worst."

Not really, but that was neither here nor there. The _bed_ was here and there. Dean never thought he'd welcome the musty smell of a rundown motel as much as he did at that moment. All of the night's adrenaline rushes caught up with him, as if the bed had some serious, actual mojo over him. The second he saw it was the second his concern for Sam's injury, while still there, nudged down just a notch. The overriding need was for sleep. He'd drop Sam on his bed, er, make sure Sam was comfortable, and then it was time for sleep. He already had his biological clock set to wake him up in two hours. Or three.

"Maybe you'll remember in the morning?" Dean asked, thinking _please, please, please wait until morning_.

Sam's feelings were both annoying and remarkably accurate. If his brother was feeling a feeling about sweet, officially and spiritually dead Caroline, Dean wasn't sure he wanted to know about it. Ever, but especially not now. With any luck, Sam's feeling was a side effect of whatever had been given him, and all of this would fade from memory completely. No déjà vu feelings to wake up to.

"I guess."

Sam looked at him, thoughtful and slightly cross-eyed from fatigue. Though that could be Dean's blurry vision at play on both counts. Shit, he was tired of this headache. Dean snagged a few Tylenol out of their first aid stash, popping them dry. He took off his jacket, draping it on the overstuffed easy chair tucked in the corner of the room. He heard Sam yawn, ending it with a small squeak of pain.

"I'm pretty sure it's important though."

"It always is, Sam," Dean said. Now he was being as patronizing as stupid Deputy Graham had been, but, really, if this wasn't relevant at this very second he saw no reason why both he and Sam couldn't be unconscious already. "It always is."

Sam gently lay down on his own bed, sighing when his head hit the pillow.

Dean stared at him for a minute, then had half a heart. He took his brother's shoes off, not difficult because they weren't laced. Just a tug and then gravity took over.

"Thanks, Dean," Sam mumbled.

"Go to sleep, Sam," Dean said with gruff affection, most of the concussion-induced frustration with Sam vanishing.

Dean supposed it made him a pathetic fool for always needing that from Sam, or maybe just a sad bastard for never quite expecting it. Positive reinforcement was rarely his to claim, including simple shows of gratitude. If for no other reason, he was so damned glad to have Sam back he didn't know what he'd do if his brother ever left again. Sam gave him what their father never could. It was not because he didn't think his father wasn't as much a hero as ever, and not because John Winchester was a heartless SOB. Lately, Dean had started to wonder if his father was so broken he didn't know how to give his son what he needed.

With those unhappy thoughts, Dean fell into his own bed and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	15. Chapter 14

_A/N: Continued thanks to everyone who's following along! Also a reminder that this has been alpha-read by LdyAnne and edited by Meg. There may be lingering typos, but hopefully nothing too, too awful. _

_Last time, Dean and Sam were getting some much needed R&R, after a job well done. Shall we see what they're up to now?_

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 14**

Sam awakened with a gasp, pulling out of sleep with a familiar sense of panic. His lungs felt as if a great weight was pushing down on them, physical effects of a dream he couldn't quite remember. He was used to waking suddenly from a dream, but this time he didn't think it had been the recurring image of Jessica pinned to the ceiling. His lungs burned as he tried to gather in oxygen, and rein in the panic. His heart pounded so fast he could almost hear it. He lifted his head, scanning his surroundings quickly. The room was flooded with late-morning light, overly bright from the sun reflecting off fresh snow. At the foot of his bed a figure stood, its features shadowed by backlighting. His uneasiness increased.

"Someone's at the door," it said.

It took him a moment to recognize the voice. Dean. Not…that thing from last night. Sam let his head fall back. Pounding came from the other side of the thin motel door, in sync with his heartbeat.

"Then maybe you should answer it." Sam rolled gingerly to look at the clock on the nightstand. Crap, it was already almost noon. "Why'd you let me sleep so long?"

Dean snorted, as if that was a stupid question.

Sam guessed it was. He felt like he could sleep for another four hours, a rare sensation for him. Most of the time sleep brought too many subconscious things to light for him to ever truly welcome it.

"I didn't let you do anything, dude, I just woke up."

"Oh," Sam said.

That should worry him. He tended to get up before Dean, but that didn't mean his brother ever slept until midday unless there was something wrong with him. Sam squinted at Dean, his vision blurring grayish and almost fluid like an oil slick. He blinked the illusion away, sitting up. He started stretching his limbs while Dean tugged on his clothes, grabbed the knife from under his pillow and walked to the door. More muscles than Sam knew he had were sore. He was finally in good hunting shape again, but there were certain muscle groups that were always sore after a supernatural skirmish. He took a mental tally on his condition, as he tried to brush the cobwebs of sleep aside.

The wound tract in his right shoulder felt tight, but Sam could tell the mending process was already working to knit skin and flesh back together. Accompanying that was a dull, throbbing ache. Once he got something to numb the pain, he'd feel okay. He already felt better than last night, from what he could remember. Movement was just going to be impeded a little for a couple days, but the sling helped keep the shoulder jostling to a minimum. He glanced over at Dean, who was cautiously eyeing the door. If they were going to have company, Sam would like to put some…oh, he'd slept fully dressed. That was good.

"Yeah?" Dean called, keeping the door closed.

"It's Deputy Graham," came the muffled response.

Shooting a dark look at Sam, Dean muttered under his breath and hid the blade away before he opened the door. The deputy tromped in, carrying snow and a blast of cold air with him.

Sam had a vague inkling he and Dean had intended to skip town before getting in deeper with local law enforcement. That was their usual routine. Having Deputy Graham show up at their motel wasn't a good sign. He supposed that was his fault. His shoulder twinged in agreement; if he hadn't needed sewing up, they could have been in a different state by now. Sliding to the edge of the bed and then standing up carefully, Sam assessed Graham's rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes. He was still in uniform. The guy looked like he hadn't gotten any sleep.

"Who are you guys, really?" Graham said, his words like gunfire.

Sam started to reply, cut off before he could utter a word.

"I know you're not FBI, so don't even try to give me that crap."

"We…"Sam said.

"No, no. You might think I'm just some small town rube, but I'm not an idiot. Government agents don't drive around a friggin' classic muscle car. They sure as hell don't _shack up_ in the same crappy local motel room when there's a branch hotel available. There's no one at the Minneapolis FBI division office that can verify an Agent Morrison or Krieger exists. I want to know what's going on." Graham paced, breathing heavily and filled with nervous energy.

Sam experienced slight déjà vu of his conversation with Iris, which seemed about a billion years ago now. They were screwed. He gauged the distance between him and the door, not that he could make a fast getaway if his life depended on it, which in a way it just might. Dean threw him a look, but his brother's face was so bruised Sam couldn't tell what he was trying to say.

"There must have been some mix-up in paperwork, Deputy Graham. A simple misunderstanding, that's all. We did just recently transfer from Detroit," Dean said. Holding his hands up, Dean approached the guy the way he would a wampus cat, cautious but very ready to either fight or run.

"Bullshit," Graham shouted. "I knew there was something up when your partner or whoever he is suggested the town just get over it. Two deaths in the same place within a week and the FBI wants to brush it off? Oh, I don't think so. And then you just happened to be out at the cemetery last night when something else obviously went down?"

Bruise or no bruise, there was no room to misinterpret Dean's expression at Graham's last tirade. His brother looked at him for help he didn't feel capable of giving. His brain was too foggy from sleep and soreness and something else nudging at his mind. Sam shrugged with one shoulder, the motion pulling at his injured right. He winced, unconsciously reaching up to press against it. The pain was increasing the longer he was awake, but still tolerable at a dull throb.

"I want you to tell me who you are, what you're doing in Morris and what you have to do with people dying."

It slowly occurred to Sam that there was more to Graham's confrontation than met the eye. Just part of it was his inability to figure out why it was just Graham and not the whole sheriff's department, for example. He and Dean had been busted impersonating federal agents. They should be in handcuffs by now, and this conversation wouldn't be happening in a motel room.

"Why don't you sit down?" Dean said with deceptive calm.

"Why don't I…"

"Look, maybe you should tell us how you've reached this brilliant deduction of yours. Sit."

Dean was more forceful, and Sam recognized the distraction technique. If they could get the deputy to talk about something else, get him off the track he was currently on, maybe they'd have time to work around this mess. Sam knew he could use it. His head was spinning just a little. He watched Graham pale as he looked at Dean's stained clothes and stern expression, before perching on the edge of the TV stand. Sometimes a softer approach worked, but then again sometimes it took a hard edge and brusqueness that only Dean could ever deliver consistently, especially now.

"Sam, you should sit, too. You look like you're going to keel over."

Out of the blue he had an image of Gwen standing over him, looming and large. It made him anxious. Closing his eyes, he envisioned Caroline Sellke's headless statue above him instead of Gwen. The face-shaped translucence where the head used to be looked down at him sadly. He didn't recall the face bit from before, his brain only now adding that detail. He couldn't be sure if it had really happened or if it was his imagination. He didn't usually hallucinate during a gig. Or have flashbacks.

"I…" Sam started to say, but he didn't know how to finish. Somehow Dean was right next to him with a glass of water and a sample packet of pills the doctor had sent him off with, and it startled him.

"Take a pill, Sam. Don't argue with me," Dean said, putting the glass and bottle on the bedside table. He leaned close, speaking in hushed tones. "And don't go all spacey on me, either. I need your help dealing with this doofus. Okay?"

Sam nodded, sitting. He took the pills gratefully, ignoring the water in favor of taking them dry. Across the room, Graham watched them, angry expression still on his face, but simultaneously, interest. He was probably reassessing based on whatever new information he had. Whatever the motivation, Sam felt like a bug in a jar. He shifted to get more comfortable, trying to ignore the additional strain on his shoulder. The way he caught Dean giving him another sidelong, worried look told him he failed on that count. He shook his head, nodding toward Graham.

"First, I'm going to make some coffee," Dean announced, clapping his hands together. "Seeing as we _just woke up and all_."

"If that's supposed to make me feel bad, it doesn't," Graham snapped, "I was up all night. I haven't slept in nearly thirty-six hours, actually, so while you're at it, make enough for me, too."

The maker was a motel standard two-cupper, and couldn't make enough crappy coffee for any one of them alone, if the way Sam felt was any indication. Dean said something under his breath, glowering at Graham who glowered right back. Sam still couldn't figure out why the guy hadn't hauled them into custody.

"Screw the coffee," Dean said finally. "It looks like you're too smart for us. You want the truth?"

"That is what I came here for."

"Dean, I don't think…," Sam said, recognizing the stubborn set to Dean's jaw.

"Okay, then here it is." Dean spat out, ignoring Sam. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "You're right; we're not feds. We brothers. We're also hunters, but we don't hunt deer or any other kind of wild game. No, what we hunt is evil. Demons, monsters, things that go bump in the night. You with me?"

Graham nodded dazedly, then shook his head in confusion. Perfectly natural.

"We troll for news stories that might be our kind of gig. Don't ask us how we can tell something's not a natural occurrence, we just can. We heard about the first death and it didn't seem right, a young girl dying like that. We came to Morris to figure out what was going on." Dean emphasized his words with hand gestures and serious glaring. "Well, it turned out to be a vengeful spirit was bound to a statue. Yes, that smashed statue out in the cemetery. There was no repair crew out there. We did that, because it was what we needed to do to get rid of the spirit before it killed anyone else. Let me know if you need me to repeat that."

As Dean rattled it all off, Graham's expression grew more and more dumbfounded. By the time Dean was done, the deputy looked at them as if he and Dean had grown second heads. It wouldn't have been Sam's choice to blurt it all out like that, but given the circumstances coming up with another cover story wasn't possible. He knew what kind of reaction the truth was guaranteed to bring. Judging from Graham's open-mouthed stare, Sam was right about that. However, it was way too late to spin it into a more readily believable story now.

Sometimes a hard edge and brusqueness needed a sugar coating.

"You see, sometimes when people die violently their spirits are so traumatized they can't move on," Sam said, keeping his voice soft to counterbalance Dean's abrupt delivery. "We think that's what happened in this case. And those spirits don't belong here anymore. Sometimes we, me and Dean and others like us, have to give them a little push out of our world."

If, that was, a little push meant salt, lighter fluid and lots of fire. Or a good swing of a sledgehammer or two. Whatever it took. Sam had a sudden memory of the statue coming at him, headless and one-armed. It had looked like something was there, like the statue itself was more of an exoskeleton than a binding agent. He furrowed his eyebrows.

Graham blinked, and looked contemplative. For a long minute, the room was silent. The deputy twitched a few times, toying with his hand-held radio as if he planned on doing what he should have done to start with – call in backup and haul the Winchesters into custody.

"So, let me get this straight. You were out there putting an evil spirit to rest," Graham said at last, incredulous but also serious. "What were the girls really doing out there?"

"Getting in the way," Dean said. "It went south fast. Vengeful spirits don't tend to like what we do to them."

"Uh. Why was this the first anyone's heard of it?"

"Trust us, Deputy, it's a really long, boring story," Sam said. "I'm not sure you need or want to hear it."

Graham looked more confused, but then he started to smile. Not the expected reaction.

"I knew it. I knew there was something weird, like really _weird,_ going on around here," Graham said. "I wasn't sure before, but after all the crazy stuff last night, I knew those kids couldn't have died from natural causes. There really is something out there."

"Let me guess. You were a big _X-Files_ fan," Dean said dryly.

"Well, yeah." Graham shot Dean a wild look, starting to pace again. "But only for the first four or five years. After that it started getting unrealistic."

Dean mouthed, "_Unrealistic?_"

"Yeah, you know, about aliens and stuff. I liked it when there were more monster-of-the-week stories, not just alien conspiracies."

"Oh," Sam said. Speaking of unrealistic, he felt as if the conversation had just turned as surreal as a Salvador Dali painting. Graham was almost bouncing with excitement, for crying out loud. "Right."

"I just never thought something like this could happen in real life, you know? I didn't not believe, but…well, after all the crazy stuff, it all makes sense now."

Sam had initially thought the deputy's curiosity would be a problem, but it might actually be an advantage now. He glanced at Dean, who looked at him oddly but then nodded. Graham knew the truth and was apparently more enthused about it than freaked, so he might let them go. Time was still a factor; if Graham had figured them out, the sheriff couldn't be far behind.

"So you understand for us to do our job, sometimes we have to insert ourselves into local investigations," Sam said carefully, knowing what a profiler would do with that information. "But now that you know the truth, what're you going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"About us, Deputy," Dean said. "I gotta be honest – if we hadn't been knocked around last night, we'd already be out of here."

Getting back to his feet, Sam felt the effects of the pain medication right away. He felt sluggish, dull and heavy. He wasn't surprised when Dean immediately moved across the room to stand closer to him. Dean's concern was more welcome than irritating, sometimes. Sam wouldn't faceplant right there or anything, but he shouldn't have taken the pills without something in his stomach. As if sharing his thoughts, Dean grabbed a protein bar from their stash of ready-to-eat food and handed it to him.

"The spirit's gone now?"

"Yes," Dean said.

"You're sure?" Graham said, regaining his befuddled expression.

"_Yes_. I don't know how to be clearer about that. It was tied to the statue. The statue's gone, therefore so's the spirit."

"But what about…"

Sam's brain kicked in.

_A dark shape above him, face ghostly and sad. Heavy. Heaviness on his legs, his stomach, his chest. Breath squeezing from his lungs. Sudden release, gray haze floating away and shaking all over._

"Sam, hey."

A rough voice called to him. A gentle shake on the shoulder brought pain, and awareness.

"Sam, I told you not to get all spacey on me."

Sam opened his eyes, finding himself sitting on the bed again. Dean was crouched right in front of him, a hand firmly on his good shoulder. Graham was behind Dean, white and with a fearful expression.

"Dean," Sam said with a gasping breath, as if he'd really just been suffocating again. "I think we have a problem."


	16. Chapter 15

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 15**

A problem. Great. That was just what Dean needed to hear.

Sam was apparently a master of understatements, but as far as Dean was concerned the most immediate problem they had was his little brother gasping like a frigging fish out of water. There were fifteen kinds of pain written all over Sam's face, and that was not okay. He gestured for Graham to get Sam something to drink, mostly to get him out of the way for a second. He watched the guy head for the bathroom with a worried frown on his face. Dean didn't begrudge him that. Sam looked like he'd just come out of a vision, unfocused and breathless. Oh, crap, please not that. Dean took Sam by the chin, turning his face upward so he could make and maintain eye contact.

"Sam, what just happened?" Dean said quietly. "It wasn't a, you know, vision, was it?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sam said, his breathing still too shaky for Dean's liking.

He let go of Sam, or, more accurately, let Sam tug out of his grasp. He kept a hand on his brother's forearm. Even if Sam was seated, Dean didn't want to take the chance he'd fall flat onto the floor. Stranger things had happened, and not that long ago. He glanced toward the bathroom, where Graham looked around stupidly for a glass or something. These kinds of moments were awkward enough without an audience. The longer Graham stayed gone, the better.

"Dean, I don't think we're finished here."

That got his attention. He let go of Sam's arm, standing up. Dread washed over him, yet he wasn't entirely surprised.

"Why would you say that?"

"Know that thing I couldn't remember last night? Well, I remembered."

Crap, Dean hadn't had time to think about that yet this morning. Goddamned Graham. He darted another look toward the bathroom, where the guy was still putzing around. Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair again, also cursing his internal clock for not waking him up, even if that would have only meant they'd have to drive back to Morris. He needed a shower. He needed aspirin. He needed for Sam to be wrong.

"I think…last night, I think I saw Caroline's spirit."

"Yeah, I saw it, too, as it launched me into a tree," Dean said. He didn't want to hear what he already knew was coming.

"No, Dean, I mean after the statue was destroyed. I…" Sam blinked up at him, face tight and miserable.

Dean fought back irritation he knew was largely a result of his headache. It hadn't been a walk in the park for either of them, and he didn't even want to imagine what it would feel like to have the air squeezed out of his lungs. Not just a regular chokehold struggle like he'd experienced many times, but an actual weight pressing down. Frowning, he shook himself to stop thinking about it. He couldn't exactly blame Sam for not registering a tiny, but important detail when he himself had been face down in the dirt at the time. He clenched his jaw at the reminder of how lucky Sam was to be alive, how lucky _he_ was to still have a brother.

"And this just came to you?" Dean said, forcing lightness in his tone.

"No, this came to me while I was suffocating," Sam said dazedly.

Dean frowned at that response, and at how long it was taking Sam to recover. Simply remembering something shouldn't take a physical toll, but it apparently had. He supposed if his gut felt like it turned inside out at the thought of Sam suffocating to death while he was only a few feet away, it was possible reliving the actual suffocation could be a very real experience. Like instant replay, in 3D.

"Suffocating," Dean repeated in a quiet voice, in spite of himself.

He flicked his eyes to the sample packet of pills. Of course, they couldn't be helping Sam at all. Pain meds on an empty stomach tended to make a person lethargic. When he looked back at Sam, his brother blinked at him with eyes clear and focused again. So clear, Dean could tell Sam thought he was hovering too much. He didn't much care.

"I don't think it fully registered until now."

Graham finally wandered back into the room, glass of water in hand and a puzzled expression on his face. He set the water down, next to the other full glass already on the bedside table and well within Sam's reach. He glanced back and forth between the glasses for a second before shaking his head, handing Sam a wet washcloth.

Sam squinted at it like he didn't know what to do with it before putting it on the table, unused.

"Uh, is he all right?" Graham asked Dean, as if Sam weren't sitting right there.

"I'm fine," Sam said. "It was nothing, really."

"Pills on an empty stomach," Dean added.

"Oh." Graham looked at them gravely. "If everything's all right, then I should get going. I'd recommend you guys get out of town sooner rather than later. Don't think we're, I'm, not grateful, but no one else is gonna believe this. As long as you're really positive…never mind, of course you are. It goes against everything I've been taught, but I'll cover for you as long as I can. That won't be very long."

"Don't worry about us," Dean said. "All we need is a shower, some food and then we're as good as gone. In an hour or two, it'll be like we were never here."

The only thing inaccurate about that was the timeline. Dean wished they could go take care of the problem right away, but gravedigging wasn't something that could be done in the light of day. At the mention of food, his stomach growled. If he was going to spend all damned night digging frozen ground, he was going to need sustenance. He could go through the drive-thru somewhere while Sam got busy with not looking like he was ready to fall into a dead faint.

Graham let himself out, giving them one last hesitant look.

"Dean, maybe we should have asked Deputy Graham for help," Sam said after the door shut. "I don't think I'm going to be lifting a shovel anytime soon."

That was a fair point; with Sam in no condition for digging, or in case of another go-round with the spirit, they might need an extra pair of hands. Dean hadn't relished the idea of digging a grave in frozen ground before, and now the thought made his head feel ready to explode and his ribs splinter. A salt and burn definitely would go smoother if they didn't have to stay one step ahead of the law, too, if the law was right there next to them. But Dean couldn't shake how unnatural it was for a hunter to be in cahoots with the law in any way, shape or form. He shook his head.

"No, it's better if we keep to ourselves," Dean said. "We'll be fine."

"On our own, just like always." Sam gave a dejected sigh, and then tried to cover it with a feeble smile. "Right?"

Sam was not good at covering his emotions. Dean had a feeling he knew his brother's thought progression – from wanting help from Graham to thinking about the college girls to realizing how goddamned lonely it was to do what they did. It was a recurring theme.

"Now you've got it, Sammy," he said with false cheer.

He had never been a social creature. Aside from primal human needs, he didn't seek interaction with normal people; nothing besides that came from anyone other than his father or his brother. All that mattered was family; that's where he got his companionship and love. Sam, on the other hand, had craved attention and friendships from others. It hurt him that Sam didn't feel the same way he did, even though he knew it was screwed up. He knew the typical American family grew apart as everyone gained interests of their own, but his was not the typical American family. When Dad had left and never come back, Dean'd panicked from the sheer pain of being alone. If Sam left he'd panic again.

But nothing good could come from trying to bring outsiders in, even a little bit. Dean hoped Sam would accept that one day, which he knew on some level made him a lousy human being.

"I'm going to shower and then go grab us a bite. You hungry? I'm hungry," Dean said. "And we need to be sure this time that a salt and burn will do it. Maybe the damned spirit is attached to something else."

"I don't think so. A salt and burn should work."

"Yeah, well, that's what we thought about the first attempt. I'd rather not go through this again, again."

Giving Sam one last once over to make sure he was not about to suffer some random relapse, he still didn't like how pale his brother was but he didn't look ready to fall over. He grabbed a clean(ish) pair of jeans and a fresh(er) shirt and headed for the bathroom. Sam had probably been cleaned up at the hospital last night, at least. He smelled like dirt and sweat and Sam's dried blood on his T-shirt. Gross.

The bathroom light bulb flickered, making his reflection in the mirror look all the crappier. He paused for a second to assess his own injuries, the puffiness of the facial bruise, and the deepening hues of purple along his ribcage. For them, it didn't look that bad, but to anyone else he probably looked like he'd been in a bad fight or car accident. There was nothing he'd like more than to heal up for a few days, and that right there was probably enough reason for fate to deny it.

If fate existed, all Dean truly wanted from it was a juicy hamburger and some onion rings. His stomach growled, spurring him to hurry through the shower. Though the hot water felt damned good, he thought he'd feel human again once there was something in his belly. When he left the bathroom, he expected to find Sam lying down or at the laptop. Instead, Sam had changed out of the hospital top and into one of his fugly shirts and was struggling to put the sling back on.

"What're you doing?" Dean said.

"Help me with this." Sam gave him a pleading look he could never refuse. "I can't shower for another couple hours, but I couldn't take being in those clothes anymore."

Dean nodded. He got that. He helped Sam get the sling fastened again, then steered his brother to sit at the small table. Sam was pliable for a change, not fighting him. Dean would be happy about that, except he knew it was because Sam's energy was flagging again. Along with plain concern, it didn't bode well for what they had to do later.

"What do you want to eat?"

"I'm coming with you," Sam said.

"Sam."

"Dude, I'm _hungry_. I don't think I can wait for you to bring something back for me. We'll eat wherever we go." Sam struggled into his boots, somehow managing a stubborn set to his jaw while looking awful.

Dean forgot that Sam had a metabolism that wouldn't quit, and had to be just as hungry as him. Hungrier.

"Besides," Sam said, "I can't research on an empty stomach. I don't know what else we can find out anyway. I don't think we can go to campus again."

In the end, Dean's own stomach was the deciding factor; it didn't have time to argue. He forfeited the fight before it began, vowing that he'd pick the food and Sam would have to like it. He also didn't want to take the time for a sit-down meal, limiting his choices to a sad few. For some reason he'd been craving DQ since they'd driven into town, and it happened to be closest to the motel.

It took them twenty minutes to get four blocks, because it was slippery out and both of them had to walk like super slow penguins to avoid falling down. It had taken five minutes alone to get to the car and on the road. Crossing the threshold into the Dairy Queen, Dean felt seconds away from passing out from the hunger. The smell of grease and ice cream helped revive him enough to endure the moderate lunch line. Sam, however, had to find a booth ASAP. As Dean waited for their food, he brought the drinks over to the booth. He bit back the urge to say _I told you so_ when he found Sam sprawled out tiredly in the booth, but only because he hadn't actually come out and told Sam so. He poked Sam awake, setting the Pepsi in front of him and sat down until their order was called.

Instinctively, Dean scoped out the crowd. It was mostly old people, with a few fortysomething business types on their lunch break. He noticed Sam doing the same thing and had to grin. It was good seeing Sam getting back in the swing of things. Sam's eyebrows raised, and he nodded toward the door. Dean turned, watching two familiar people stroll in.

"We cannot get rid of that dude," Dean said, wondering who he had pissed off in a previous life to have such bad luck in this one. "He's like a friggin' bad penny."

"Small town," Sam said with a one-shouldered shrug.

"It's still weird."

"Order number twelve up. One half pound Flamethrower meal and one Crispy Chicken Salad," called a woman's voice.

Dean cringed at the very idea of Sam's meal. A salad was not food as far as he was concerned. He never understood Sam's insistence on eating vegetables. The only vegetable he considered worth eating was the deep fried potato.

"That's us," Dean said, sliding out of the booth with one arm cradling his ribs. He made his way to the counter, unable to avoid crossing paths with the pain in his ass. The temptation was too great to resist. He walked up directly behind Will Pendleton and nudged the back of his knee so that his leg buckled. "Oops, sorry. I didn't see you there."

Will spun toward him, but any annoyance he had switched rapidly to alarm and maybe a little fear. He backed up a step, right into his big roommate, who looked at once amused and intimidated.

"You again," Will said. "I swear to God you're stalking me."

"Don't flatter yourself, dude." Dean pulled his tray of food off the counter, winking at the aimless-looking woman behind the counter. "I'm here for lunch."

"What happened to your face?"

"Fight with a rogue spirit statue."

"Oh. Uh." Will shifted nervously, moving to an open register. "Well, bye."

Dean smiled, shoved a fry in his mouth and started back to their table. He made it two steps when the Dairy Queen…exploded. There were screams and loud clatters. As he spun toward the front of the store, Dean was nearly beheaded by a flying metal vat of hot fudge. It clanged against the wall behind him, fudge spilling out with a splat.

"Jeez," he hissed, jerking.

He parted ways with the tray of food. No need to waste it, though – he set it on the condiment bar and hoped it'd stay out of harm's way. After giving the burger a longing look, Dean reached for a weapon, but remembered he was unarmed. He dodged a steaming soup tureen, landing on his knees with a grunt. Damn, flailing around made his ribs ache like a bitch. He was one of six in the lobby area on hands and knees.

"What the hell?" Will shouted, staring at him. "What's going on?"

"Everyone keep your heads down," Dean said. "Lay low."

"No shit," someone said.

Dean thought it had been the ninety-five year old, blue-haired granny clutching onto Will's roommate, Thad. After that, he couldn't hear much beyond the terrified cries of old people and Sam shouting to watch out. Dean crawled to the counter, peering up. There was a riot of motion he could only attribute to a supernatural cause. Ice cream dispensers switched on and off. The Mister Misty machine squirted purple ooze. Toppings flew across the room and into the dining area. He could see back into the kitchen only in the small spaces of the pass-through, but he didn't really need to see to know that was the worst place anyone could be.

Glass shattered. The screaming increased. A quick glance and Dean saw chairs flying around the restaurant and into windows. At the rear of the store, a large gumball machine rocked back and forth. Dean couldn't locate his brother for a few moments. His heart raced when he did. The bowl of the gumball machine came loose, flying straight toward Sam, who was inching his way to help a petrified old man.

"Sam, down!" he shouted, hoping like hell his brother could hear over the caterwauling.

To Dean's relief Sam dropped to the floor, pulling the old man with him, seconds before the gumball bowl flew by. It shattered against the wall and sent quarter-sized balls scattering. This had to end before someone got seriously hurt. The only weapon he could think of was wrapped in individual, inconvenient packets. He glanced at the condiment bar, heading for it. It occurred to him as he started opening salt packets.

"Duh, Dean, the kitchen."

He stood and ran, no longer caring about discretion. Speed was more important. The DQ workers gaped at him from their huddled hiding places on the floor.

"Salt," he said, "Where do you keep the bulk salt for cooking?"

A lady with straw-colored hair pointed to a big, portable rack at the back of the store. Jackpot. Not only were there tubs of supplies, there were utensils. Dean grabbed the big bucket labeled salt and started flinging it everywhere. He had no idea if it'd work, but it sure as hell couldn't hurt. He took up a long pair of tongs as a defensive weapon. He'd only gotten through the storage area when there was a loud screech followed by silence in the DQ. Well, silence except for a few whimpers and the sick, soggy sound of chocolate sauce dripping onto the floor.

"What the hell just happened?" someone muttered, opening the floodgates for every single person to ask the same thing.

Dean picked his way back to the dining area, avoiding syrupy messes, hamburger patties and gobs of melting ice cream. In various confused states, the patrons were congregating in the lobby. He did a visual circuit, frowning at Sam's absence. Racing back to the last place he'd seen his brother, Dean tried to quell his panic when he found Sam was still face down.

"Is he dead?" the old man Sam had helped asked, glasses crooked, bent over at the waist as he struggled to get to his feet.

"No, he's just resting," Dean said, helping the old man to a seat before leaning over his brother. "Come on, Sam."

"Do I have to?" Sam groaned, but rolled over cautiously.

Sam's face was a whole new shade of gray. Dean clenched his teeth, helping his brother onto his enormous feet. To his credit, Sam only wavered for a second. Dean guided him to the front, propping him against the condiment bar where their tray of food sat completely undamaged. Dean picked up his burger, unwrapping it and taking a big bite.

"Well," he said with his mouth full. "I guess DQ really is something different."

_A/N: I know a mother's not supposed to show favoritism, but I have to admit I love this chapter the best so far. Title options: Terror at the DQ! Death by Chocolate Sauce!_


	17. Chapter 16

_A/N: I'm getting nervous. I have a deadline for a different fic - all forward movement on this story has stopped until Monday. Eep! It shouldn't cause delays in posting, but I want to warn people I **might** not be able to post two chapters a week soon. On the plus side, we are on the fast track to the end and there will be more hurty moments. ;)_

_Continued thanks for the support! I really appreciate it. _

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 16**

"And that was when the gumball machine flew across the room," Sheriff Willis said, slipping on a bright pink gumball. He looked like he didn't believe a thing anyone had told him, despite the evidence literally underfoot. "Was this before or after the broccoli-cheese committed soupicide?"

Sam sighed tiredly. There was no way to get a reasonable explanation about what had happened, no matter how many people the sheriff interviewed. Sam knew it, and he knew Willis knew it.

"I don't really know, Sheriff," he said. "It all happened so fast. I don't think you're going to get an accurate timeline from anyone."

"I suppose not." Willis scratched at the top of his head, gazing around the room. After a few seconds, he returned his attention to Sam with an apologetic smile. "I get sarcastic when I'm tired."

"It's okay."

Taking a closer look, Sam saw the sheriff appeared as exhausted as Deputy Graham had that morning. The two recent, unusual deaths clearly were taking a toll. Willis looked the right age to have a teenage son or daughter, or not that much older. His own age, Sam thought, which made him uncomfortable. If he was right, then this kind of thing would have to be even more difficult under those circumstances. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"You all right, Agent Krieger?" Willis asked, for the first time sounding something other than annoyed at his and Dean's presence as FBI. "We still need a more comprehensive statement from you and your partner about what went down last night, but if you need more recovery time, let me know."

"I'd appreciate it," Sam said, never shy about taking opportunities that presented themselves. It didn't take much effort to adopt a pathetic pose. "To tell you the truth, I probably shouldn't have left the hospital. It's been rough."

"Tell me about it. First the deaths and now this stuff. I haven't slept in a week."

"I'll bet it's been hectic around here."

Because being impaled was nothing compared to a week of no sleep. He shook his head. At least he'd avoided the messiest part of the attack today. His shoulder throbbed, dulled only slightly by analgesic. Sam sought out his brother, spotting Dean flirting with one of the cashiers as if he didn't have fudge running down the side of his face and strawberries in his hair. Hell, those things probably only helped his cause. Sam didn't really want to think about that. It would have been nice if his brother would have given him an assist during the sheriff's questioning. He shot Dean an evil-eyed stare.

Willis looked at him looking at Dean and seemed sympathetic. "Your _partner's_ a bit of a philanderer, isn't he? You ought to keep him on a short leash. That's the owner's married daughter he's flirting with."

Of course it was. Sam tried to look embarrassed. It wasn't difficult.

Thankfully, Willis took that as a cue the interview was over. "Stay available. Hopefully things will settle down around here soon."

The sheriff had kept Sam too busy to try to figure out what had happened himself, but now he had the chance to think. Caroline's MO didn't include tearing places apart in fits of rage, and the scream that had echoed through the building at the end of the episode had definitely been angry. There'd been no history of violence until he and Dean had showed up, but he doubted they were the reason for this. A thought they were dealing with yet another spirit crossed his mind, but that didn't work. It would be too much of a coincidence for a new spirit to pop up suddenly, even for them. He scowled to himself.

Sam glanced around. The restaurant was bustling with activity and chatter. He heard the old man he'd tackled out of harm's way regaling his nursing home buddies with the story, complete with truly inspired adjectives. Sam smiled, moving on to several uniformed DQ workers trying to clean and arguing with the cops about it. Crime scene protocol. His gaze stopped on Will and Thad, who both looked ready to burst. He counted it as lucky that they were being interviewed by one of the cops so he didn't have to deal with them, but hoped they were keeping their mouths shut. Dean had words with them before the local law enforcement arrived, so that _should_ have secured them as witnesses. Like that had worked with Will so far. There were just too damned many people who knew who he and Dean were and why they were in Morris for Sam's liking.

Dean gave up on the flirting, strolling over to him. "Have a good chat with the sheriff?"

"It was riveting," Sam said. "Thanks for help with that, by the way."

"I was busy. I scored us free large Blizzards on our next five visits to the DQ," Dean said, grinning toothily and flashing Sam a fistful of coupons. "They're good everywhere. You're welcome."

Sam laughed. He did have a soft spot for Reese's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzards. Besides, Dean looked so proud of himself Sam couldn't be annoyed his brother had left him to fend for himself.

"Oh, and Enos over there told me this was the third incident." Dean gestured to an officer now talking to the owner's married daughter. "Apparently most of the sheriff's department was up all night."

He should have known Dean wasn't off enjoying himself without getting actual work done. Sam was getting better at understanding his brother, but sometimes it was difficult not to fall back on old, half-informed reactions. He frowned at Dean's news.

"That must be why Deputy Graham didn't look like he believed us," Sam mused. He glanced at the mess of chocolate sauce and melting soft serve. "I don't get any of this, man."

"Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"No, I mean as the spirit was suffocating me last night," Sam said, pretending not to see Dean flinch, "It seemed almost sad. It was like it…like it just wanted company."

"Well, the thing almost got it, remember?" Dean growled. "Do not tell me you're sympathetic."

Sam hadn't been able to put it in words before, but that was what it was – Caroline had seemed hopeless and the emotion had weighted him down, held him trapped. There had been no record of violence until he and Dean had showed up, likely because they'd stopped her from claiming first Will and then Gwen. Dean wouldn't buy that idea. Hell, Sam wasn't sure it made sense himself. The main thing was, why was Caroline now on a rampage without taking lives, and how much more difficult would a salt and burn be because of it? The former would be interesting to know, but the latter could be life or death. Dean could _not_ dig a grave on his own fast enough. Not in frozen ground, and not with cracked ribs Sam _knew_ were bothering him more than he let on. Definitely not with an angry spirit on the loose.

"I'm not sympathetic, Dean. I just meant her being this active complicates things. You think she's going to be happy when we start digging her up?" Sam asked quietly. They shouldn't be discussing this in front of civilians, even the mostly deaf, geriatric crowd surrounding them. "We should get out of here."

Dean nodded, carefully surveying the people closest to them for a reaction. His eyes narrowed and, before Sam could say anything, Dean stalked away with a curse. It didn't take him long to figure out why. Will and Thad had found a semi-clean booth to sit in, where they were passing a cell phone back and forth between them.

Sam stood and shuffled over, catching the only tail end of Dean's angry tirade. The expletives used made him uncomfortable, and he was no angel.

"We weren't going to do anything with it," Thad said, voice squeaking up to an octave Sam was awed the big guy could reach. "It's for our eyes only."

"Yeah." Will grabbed for the phone, trying to pry it from Dean without success. "I learned my lesson, I swear."

Sam thought that might be code for _'Next time I'll use YouTube.'_ Trust or, well, not, whatever the phone's camera had captured wasn't leaving the DQ. Dean looked as if he was just as likely to crush the phone under his heel as delete the footage, so Sam took it from his brother. Out of curiosity, he played a few seconds of the vid. Oh, yeah, it'd be a huge success on YouTube. He almost felt bad erasing it just as an arc of butterscotch sauce flew across the screen. Without knowing the context, he might appreciate the artistic merit of the shot.

"Aw, man," Will said. "I told you we should have waited until they left, Thad."

"Sure, blame me," Thad said, sounding amused and half-hearted. "Your dumb choices are always my fault. Who thinks of making movies while being bludgeoned by steaming foot-long hot dogs, anyway?"

The smile on Thad's face was disingenuous, and it occurred to Sam the guy might have gotten them caught on purpose. He didn't know the guy, but he was starting to like him. Whether or not Thad had ratted out his roommate, the problem was now solved and he just had to get Dean away from his hate/hate relationship with Will. He put the phone on the table.

"It's done, Dean," he said. "Let's go."

"I'm serious this time, Will. I don't want any more drama from you," Dean said. "Do you know what the word defenestration means?"

"No…what?"

"Look it up, genius, and think of that if you're tempted to do something stupid while I'm still in town. Hell, even after that. We have ways of checking up on you."

With that impressive demonstration of vocabulary (Sam was going to have to look up that word), Dean stormed off. Sam noticed his brother hunched slightly to the side, protecting his sore ribs. In the chaos, Sam hadn't seen much beyond the beige tile floor, but he was certain Dean had been flying around, playing hero without hesitating. At the door, Dean glanced back impatiently. Sam hurried to join him. The trip back to the motel went faster; the snow had melted or been salted off the sidewalks, streets and parking lots. They rode in silence, Sam because he was still tired. Dean because, Sam suspected, he was brimming with irritation.

Sam knew they should spend the afternoon planning the best way to accomplish the salt and burn. His vote was still on getting Graham's help. Involving civilians was never something entered into lightly, but in this case he really thought it necessary. He said as much as he lay down on the bed for a few minutes. He relaxed into the mattress as if it were a fluffy cloud, blinking slowly.

Opening his eyes, Sam realized two things – it was dark outside and he was alone. The yellowish, dim glow of the bedside lamp was the only light in the room. He sat up, feeling better than he had in a while. His sling was off. He didn't remember taking it off, but then he didn't remember falling asleep. Glancing at his watch, he saw he'd lost five hours to sleep. A horrible feeling that Dean had gone off and done something stupid took root, like going to the cemetery on his own. Cursing, Sam got to his feet and searched the room for his jacket. He had one sleeve tugged on when he heard the rattle of keys at the door.

Dean walked in, a strip of beef jerky hanging out of his mouth.

"You're awake. I got dinner," Dean said, jerky bobbing up and down. He frowned. "Where you going?"

"Nowhere," Sam said.

"You're looking better."

Sam nodded. Shrugging out of the coat, he joined Dean at the table. Dinner turned out to be vending machine sandwiches, Fritos and Sunkist. Even though he'd done nothing but sleep and eat for the last day, he was hungry again. Hoping the sandwich wasn't a hotbed for salmonella, he tore the plastic cover off and started eating.

"While you were sleeping, I did some research. Wanna know what I found out?" Dean talked around a mouthful of roast beef on wheat. He didn't wait for Sam to reply. "Of course you do. Two of the police calls last night were to the same place – the place Graham stopped at before dropping us off at the car. Anyway, back in good ol' Caroline's day, the location of that home was the site of a mercantile. It was owned by a prominent businessman named Oleson, and I am not making that up. The same Mr. Oleson happened to pay for Caroline's monument."

Sam wondered how the hell Dean had figured all of that out. He was impressed, and glad that his brother was handling the exposition for a change. He reached for his bottle of Sunkist, nodding at Dean to show he was following. Unfortunately, he used his right hand and movement was better but still painful. In all the confusion earlier, they hadn't made a trip to the pharmacy. There were still two pills left from the samples Doctor Nuber had dispensed. He took them as Dean continued.

"The way I figure it, the drifter story can't be true."

"Why would you say that?" Sam asked.

"Think about it, Sam. We let out a spirit that's been trapped for a hundred years and the first place she shows up is where she thinks her posthumous benefactor is?" Dean lifted the second half of his sandwich up, looked at it and put it back down. "The second house she visited last night stood right where Mr. Oleson lived – a boarding house. Dollars to doughnuts, that bastard killed her and covered it up by coming up with the drifter theory. Footing the bill for her monument probably helped his case. Now she's out and looking for revenge, but there isn't anyone around she's interested in."

That wasn't how it worked. Or, that wasn't how Dad said it worked. Personal differences aside, Dad knew what he was doing when it came to hunting. If Dad said a vengeful spirit doesn't have a focus, rather uncontrollable rage, then Sam believed it was true.

"I know what you're thinking," Dean said. "But what if being trapped in stone like that slowed everything for her? You said the spirit seemed sad. What if it was more like she was suffering from an untreated wound? Instead of losing focus, her anger festered."

That made a pretty good theory. All they really needed was to salt and burn, but having more information could never be a bad thing. Sam nodded again.

"Maybe that's why she first manifested as a weeping statue. Frustrated vengeful spirit. For all we know, when she was suffocating people what she really wanted was for someone to fight back and release her."

"Which is exactly what we did," Sam said, setting his sandwich down. He wasn't hungry anymore. They'd screwed up and this town was paying for it. "Damn."

"Yeah. She scoped out the obvious places for her killer. The Dairy Queen, by the way, is located where the schoolhouse was. The scene of the crime. It was probably freak chance we were there when it happened."

Damn, he didn't know how he'd forgotten how good Dean was at this job. It still surprised him, when it shouldn't.

"I wonder how long it'll take her to focus less on seeking vengeance and more on destruction," Sam said.

"Not that long." Dean stood, noticeably favoring his right side. "I brought the police scanner in. There haven't been any other incidents, but that doesn't mean there won't be."

"I still think we have to worry about how she'll react when we go out there to dig her up."

Sam knew he was beating a dead horse, but Dean wasn't the only one allowed concern for his brother. He could be backup, but there was only so much fighting he could do one handed. That wasn't even taking into consideration hiding their activities from the cops.

"I can handle it, Sam," Dean said with a hint of annoyance.

"Dean, the cops are bound to have increased patrols around the cemetery since we blew it last night. I know I've said this before, but do you really think you can dig into frozen ground fast enough to not get caught?"

His brother glowered at him.

Sam slid his nearly empty bag of Fritos aside, stood and moved to sit on his bed. Resting against the headboard, he watched Dean start pacing.

"Look, I'm not repeating this over and over because I like the sound of my own voice."

Dean halted, turning toward him. "I know that, Sam. I do. But we don't put innocent people in the line of fire. Our job is to protect."

But who would protect them? Dean would say they didn't need protection. It would be a lie. There were cracks in Dean's façade wide enough for Sam to understand there was nothing in the world his brother needed more than protection. Not in a fight. Dean could fend for himself physically. Sam had realized at an early age what lay beneath the bravado was vulnerable, and to this day he didn't know what to do with that. Because Dean was his big brother. Dean couldn't need the same things he did.

"There are people here who know what's going on," Sam said. "They've already been exposed."

Dean's jaw locked stubbornly. Sam hated letting him down, but he knew he wasn't well enough to watch Dean's back.

"If not Deputy Graham, then maybe someone else." Sam imagined a big football-player type. "Will's roommate could handle it."

"I can't believe you just said that. I can't believe any of th…"

The angry response was cut short by a knock on the door. Dean trailed off, heading for the door. He peered through the peephole and Sam saw his shoulders slump.

"What the hell is up with people in this goddamned place?" Dean grumbled, opening the door.

Salvation walked in, in the form of Deputy Graham. Dean scowled, and Sam smiled.


	18. Chapter 17

_A/N: My intent with this story when I started posting was to have it all done before the premiere, expecting after that fandom's collective brains will have exploded after that. The fic is certain to explode. Uh. Looking at the calendar, now the only thing I can safely say is that I'm not gonna make it! :)_

_Thanks again, everyone. I can't say it enough. _

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 17**

There couldn't be a worse night for grave digging.

The temperature had risen to where it teetered between freezing and not freezing, making the precipitation falling more like slush than snow. Big, wet globs dive-bombed the ground as if they were on a death mission. Dean tried to think of the foul weather as nature's way of giving the car a wash, but he knew the thick, brown sludge on the road kicked up and splattered his poor Baby, negating any positive outcome. He was traumatized on her behalf.

"At least the snow will provide some cover," Sam said.

Sam's were the first words spoken directly between them since Deputy Graham had invited himself along on the salt and burn. He squinted through the slushy snow, catching sight of Graham a half a block up, waiting for them by his car.

"Like snow's going to stop a freaking vengeful spirit," he said.

Dean had to admit to himself the extra set of hands would be nice, but he remained unhappy. With him and Graham digging, that left Sam as their only guard against the spirit. Dean knew if he mentioned his problem with that, Sam would think he was implying a lack of trust. It wasn't that. His problem was that he hated the idea of exposing Sam to danger in a weakened state even more than he hated bringing a civilian into this mess. They did not hunt hurt, simple as that. A salt line around the grave would normally provide him some peace of mind. He cursed the falling slush again, for preventing the simplest of precautionary measures.

"I meant it would keep people from seeing what we were doing, in case Graham's plan doesn't work out. The snow and the trees might muffle gunfire if we have to use them."

"Oh."

After they had explained everything back at the motel, Graham had left to bribe, coerce or otherwise make sure he was the only one on patrol around the cemetery for the night. While he was at it, he also would make sure their fake IDs weren't uncovered by anyone else. It actually would help quite a bit if they didn't have to think about cops crashing onto the scene again, and it wasn't like he could resent the guy for keeping a lid on their minor little impersonating-federal-agents thing. He pulled the car into a parking space a few back from Graham's. While Dean would never like it, Graham could know what they did – but he wasn't about to let the guy see the trunk. It was a hunter's inner sanctum, as sacred as anything could be.

Pivoting, he opened the car door and slid out into the ankle-deep slop. Nice. Dean didn't dare look at the sludge-pack he knew was clogging the space between fender and tire of his poor car, keeping his eye on the prize. He popped the trunk. Sam couldn't load and reload a shotgun quickly enough if things got hairy, so they'd agreed they'd load all of the shotguns they had with salt shells and hope for the best. He really, really, _really_ didn't like the idea of Sam standing guard on his own when so much had gone wrong up to this point. Had he mentioned that? If worse came to worst, Dean fully intended to stop digging and pick up a shotgun himself. They only had four to work with, which really wouldn't give Sam many shots. He grabbed a bandoleer, in case they needed a reload.

"I was thinking," Sam said as he fumbled to load a sawed-off, holding it awkwardly under his gimpy wing. "Maybe if we put something on the ground in a circle around the grave and put salt on that, it would help? Like a few tarps?"

Dean should have thought of that himself. It wasn't a bad idea. He hadn't told Sam he planned on pouring a protective circle anyway, figuring it was better to try than not. This way the falling wet snow would probably still melt it with a tarp, but not as quickly as if the moisture came from above and below. He'd rather have Sam on re-salt duty than fighting off a spirit they knew could toss them around like they were rag dolls. He was a pragmatist like that.

"Yeah, it's worth a shot," he said, leaning down to tug out a blue tarp he couldn't remember why they even had.

Pulling back, his right side twinged and he couldn't avoid a grimace. Dean hoped his brother hadn't noticed, but by the way Sam's lips pursed into Bitchface #2, he'd failed. It had taken him a long time to decipher the differences in Sammy's bitchfaces. He hated them all sometimes, and this one was at the top of his hate list.

"We're not going to have enough. Go check to see if Deputy Doofus has anything we can use. Meet you up there in a second. Let me just get everything all set here."

Handing his brother a Colt revolver loaded with consecrated iron rounds, his favored Taurus Model 92 and one of the sawed-offs, Dean busied himself with weapons gathering so Sam wouldn't mention his ribs again. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the concern. There wasn't time for it, and, yeah, he knew that made him slightly hypocritical. He knew he hovered over his brother but hated it if anyone did the same for him. He was a veritable walking contradiction to anyone who didn't know the only things Dean valued in life were Sam and Dad, and that included himself. What good would he be without either of them? He shook his head to expel negative thoughts.

Thanks to his tender ribs and Sam's handicap, there was too much equipment to carry at once even with Graham's help. Dean decided he'd grab the shovels and lighter fluid on a second trip. Pulling out the canister of salt, he clicked the trunk lid shut and headed toward his brother. Graham was halfway in his cruiser's trunk when Dean joined him and Sam. His gut told him to shove the guy in and close it, but he resisted. He couldn't even say his ire was well founded; Graham was a nice enough person and hadn't done anything to annoy him like Will had, aside from being way too enthusiastic about everything.

It was this damned case. It was the pounding headache he still had. And it was that even now, when they were so close to finally wrapping it up, Dean had an uncomfortable urge to glance over his shoulder constantly. Like someone was watching him. Sam was the one who was supposed to be the psychic boy.

"Got it," Graham said, inching out of the trunk with a large piece of clear, flexible plastic in his hands.

"Great," Sam said. "You get everything else, Dean?"

"I'm going to have to go back for the shovels after we lay down the salt line," he said, handing off the salt to Graham. "I don't have twenty arms. It's like we're getting ready for Custer's Last Stand or something."

"Nice comparison." Sam raised his eyebrows. "Let's just hope we have a better outcome than Custer did."

Forget about Custer, Dean wanted a better outcome than they'd had last night. They schlepped toward the cemetery, with Graham at their heels like an eager puppy. The dude had no idea what he might be getting in for. This was either going to be boring and backbreaking, or it was going to be full of the kind of action people thought would be cool but didn't really want once they were actually in the middle of. There were times Dean craved that action, but tonight he was hoping for the former. He was also hoping Graham was stronger than he looked. He wanted this all to be over as fast as possible. A large glob of snow plopped on the nape of his neck, sliding down his back. Damn it.

The cemetery was dusted with last night's snowfall, though it was quickly turning into crusty piles thanks to the glop falling now. It took Dean a minute to figure out which way to go. Once he realized they'd used the side gate instead of the main one he knew where he was. The demolished statue was still lying around in bits and pieces, the largest collection where Sam must have fallen. Nearly suffocated. He kicked a big chunk out of his way. All that accomplished was a sore toe and a worried stare from Sam.

"Okay," Dean said at graveside. "We need to make the circle big enough that the dirt won't break it as we dig."

"'Bout three feet?" Sam suggested.

"That should do it."

Putting his shotguns on a nearby headstone, Dean ushered Graham to start laying the tarp. It was apparent right away there wasn't going to be enough. Before Dean started hiking back to the car, Sam solved the problem by pulling out his switchblade and cutting the deputy's tarp into three wide, lengthwise strips. By the time his brother was done, his pale face was covered with a fine sheen that of sweat. Dean frowned, pulling Sam aside.

"Did you actually take any of those pills I went and got for you?" Dean asked.

Sam looked down and to the left, the only answer needed, but he said, "I wanted my head to be clear. It's not that bad."

"Damnit, Sam."

But Dean couldn't argue the logic. He'd have done the same. He didn't know if that made him proud of or sorry for Sam for being truly Winchester in that regard. Either feeling was probably a little screwed up. He nodded, though he hated the pain lining his brother's battered face. Oh hell yeah, Graham had better dig like a freaking mole.

"Okay. I've got it all set up. Did I do it right?" Graham asked.

Peering around the deputy, Dean double-checked to make sure there were no gaps. He lugged the salt off the headstone. Checking the circle again, he wondered if they'd have enough to cover it and have enough left over to maintain a thick line.

"Perfect, Gra…what's your first name, anyway?" Dean asked. "I figure if we're going to be in the trenches together, we should at least know your name."

"It's Teddy."

Standing behind the deputy, Sam broke into an amused smile that was like a beam of light.

As for Dean, he kept his groan internal. First Veleeta Cheese and now…

"Teddy Graham. Your name's Teddy…Graham." Dean shook his head. "Boy, your parents just loved you, didn't they?"

"They call me Theo," Graham said, looking puzzled. "I prefer Teddy."

"Of course you do." Dean shoved the canister of salt at the guy. "Here. I have to go before I say something that'll hurt your feelings."

Tromping to the car, he heard Sam instructing the deputy on how to pour the salt. Dean moved with speed, grabbing the shovels and can of lighter fluid. It'd be tough torching a corpse in this kind of precipitation, but it'd been done before. They'd just have to restock their accelerant, as it would take all that they had. He hurried back to the grave, soaked and shivering. If Caroline didn't come to stop them, they might all succumb to pneumonia. When he got back, Sam and Graham (no way could he call the guy Teddy) were done and waiting within the circle. Sam was eyeing it skeptically.

"What does the salt do, anyway?" Graham asked. "I know you said the remains have to be salted and burned, but I don't understand why we did this."

"Salt is multi-purpose, but in this case it's a repellant," Dean said, passing Graham a shovel. "A spirit can't cross a salt line, so we'll be safe in here as long as it stays unbroken."

"I'll keep an eye on it." Sam looked exhausted, but alert, with a sawed-off already in hand. "We should be all right."

"So, once we dig her up and burn her it's over, right?"

Dean counted a mental ten. They'd gone over the basics, which he'd hoped would be enough to satisfy Graham's curiosity.

"Look, we'll give you a full tutorial once we're done, okay?" he said. "This'll go a lot faster without the chit-chat."

Dean noted Sam had arranged the shotguns on a headstone within the circle, handles in and easily grabbable. It wasn't as good as being able to reload quickly, but Dean was comfortable with Sam's solution. The guns would be easy for him to grab if he had to as well. A cold trickle of snow made its way down his neck again. Cursing under his breath, he swiped at it before bringing the shovel down into the hard earth. It was going to be a long dig, no matter how fast any of them wanted it to go.

Once they got in the swing of things, Graham was too busy to ask stupid questions and it went without a hitch. The night was quiet, filled only with the sound of wet snow, the sharpness of metal cutting into dirt and occasional soft grunts by him and Graham. Dean's ribs did not approve of grave digging, and his head began to truly throb after half an hour. He kept an eye on Sam, who circled around them slowly, bending to replenish the salt now and again. He also paused to lean on an upright marker to rest, but Dean pretended not to notice that.

The night didn't remain quiet. After an hour of digging, the wail of sirens came from a distance. Graham's radio crackled to life, the dispatcher calling a familiar 415 to a familiar address.

"The spirit's at it," Dean said with a grunt, heaving a full blade up and out.

"Same house as last night." Graham paused, leaning on the handle of his shovel. He took a deep breath, before he took the radio from his belt. "Dispatch, this is 1611. Do you need backup?"

"Negative, 1611. Maintain your patrol," the dispatcher said.

They hadn't considered the spirit's attack wouldn't be against them. Dean pursed his lips and looked up to Sam. His brother appeared cold, wet and worried, casting his eyes toward the town. There wasn't anything they could do about it now. The sirens stopped, and, as last night, the dispatcher called off the responding officers. Dean didn't know if that was good or bad. He and Graham dug. They were only three feet down. The ground was so damned hard, and every swing of the shovel brought Dean pain.

"Dean, the salt's almost out," Sam said after another ten minutes. "I wish this snow would let up a little."

Damn. They needed to keep some salt for the burning, and though the spirit hadn't shown Dean didn't want to chance it by letting the salt circle break. He and Sam shared a glance. There was no choice. Someone had to make a run for more. Dean wouldn't leave Sam alone out here, he was pretty sure Sam would argue against him leaving, and _neither_ of them wanted to send inexperienced Teddy Graham out into the night. The spirit had been across town, but that ooky, someone's-watching feeling Dean had made him paranoid she was there, unseen and waiting.

"What kind of salt do you need?" Graham asked.

"We prefer rock, but any'll do in a pinch." Sam poured in a gap, holding the can awkwardly. "Why?"

"Because I've got two twenty-pound bags of it in the trunk of my car."

Dean resisted the urge to bludgeon the guy with his shovel. "You're just mentioning this now?"

"It didn't occur to me. Sorry. I keep it there all winter long, to keep the back end from spinning out on the ice."

"Keys," Sam said, holding out a hand. "I'll go get it."

"Sam," Dean said. "_I'll_ get it."

Dean was certain Sam was in no shape to haul a twenty-pound bag of anything around. His brother's lips looked blue with cold, and the rest of him one foot in the grave he and Graham were digging. This had been a bad idea. In his injured state, Sam's defenses would be down. He'd been half joking about pneumonia, but looking at Sam…

"No, Dean. You guys keep digging. I've got the shotgun, and once I'm at the car I'll have plenty of ammunition."

Before Dean could argue or scramble out of the hole, Graham handed Sam the keys and his brother stepped over the tarp, gone within seconds.

"Damnit," he muttered.

"He'll be fine. There's nothing out there," Graham said, as if he had the first clue about anything.

"Shut up and dig, Teddy bear."

Graham did, but after Dean stabbed his shovel blade into the ground, he didn't lift it until he heard Sam coming back. It took at least seven minutes, not that he was alternating between watching the clock and watching for his brother. The wind picked up, so strong the dense snow started coming down at an angle. Great. Not a fit night out, for neither man nor beast. He saw Sam had emptied some of the salt out of the big bag, carrying it like Santa carried his sack of toys. The sawed-off was awkwardly in his right hand, and his face showed the strain.

"This should last us," Sam said, or rather wheezed.

Dean scrambled out of the hole, taking the bag from Sam with more force than was necessary. He glared at his brother as he haphazardly spread the salt over weak spots.

"That was stupid, Sam. Just like you, always doing what you want, damn the consequences," Dean hissed angrily. He didn't even know where it came from. That bad feeling he had, maybe. Anything could have happened to Sam out there. "There was no reason I couldn't have gone. I'm fitter for the job."

"Damn the consequences?" Sam blinked, confused, taking a couple steps back. He switched the shotgun to his left hand, regarding Dean as if he might be possessed. "Dean, it's like I said – I figured you should keep digging so we can get out of here sooner. Get off my back, would you?"

A gust of wind blew Sam's hair into his face, obscuring hurt and angry eyes. Dean slumped, dropped the bag of salt and ran a hand through his hair. Sam was right. Dean was about to apologize and joke about catching Sam's chronic PMS when he noticed Sam had stepped outside the circle. The bad feeling notched up to a horrible feeling.

"Sam, get…"

The wind cut off his words, howling an inhuman cry. Before Dean could make it to his brother, Sam flew backward through the air with a startled cry, disappearing into the swirling snow.


	19. Chapter 18

_A/N: Goodness gracious. I am dead from the premiere, just as I expected. It's taken me days to recover. I'm nervously posting this without having the next bit finished, which is rare for me to do. I like a buffer. Even if the next chapter will be the last (it could be, or it could go on for one beyond it...), I don't like not being done. Blame Kripke for any delays. I know I will. _

_  
__**Before:**  
The wind cut off his words, howling an inhuman cry. Before Dean could make it to his brother, Sam flew backward through the air with a startled cry, disappearing into the swirling snow._

**Sweet Caroline  
Chapter 18**

* * *

One second he was on the verge of punching Dean, and the next he was airborne.

For all Sam knew, a giant hand had grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him into eddying whiteness. He was a mess of confusion, uncertain which way was up and which down. Limbs pinwheeling, he lost his grip on the sawed-off. He was thrown so fast it felt like he'd left his stomach behind. His flight came to an abrupt halt, his midsection crashing into something immoveable and hard. That proved his stomach hadn't actually left him, at least. The breath rushed out of his lungs, diaphragm in spasm and refusing to allow any air back in. He heaved, sliding off the rounded stone monument. His arms and legs wouldn't cooperate. He landed in a heap.

"Sam!" Dean's cry came from far away.

Black blotches crept across his vision. The wind gusted around him. Tucking his face down nearly into snow, all Sam could do was try to regain his breath. He forced himself to relax, knowing if he didn't he'd be in an all-out panic in a second. Time wasn't on his side. Before he had even sucked in one full inhalation, infinite_ coldness_ enveloped him, carrying him further still from Dean. His back collided with a tree trunk, agony flaring from his bruised shoulder both outward and inward, hot and a second later ice cold. He gurgled, slumping down into a semi-conscious haze. The noise in his ears crescendoed, sounding oddly like pitiable sobs. He felt something tugging at him, pulling his arms. Still half out of it, Sam put up what fight he could, more than he'd mustered so far.

"Easy. Easy, Sammy. It's me." Dean was so close it startled Sam into compliance. His brother slapped him on the face gently. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air. "Let's get out of here before that bitch comes back. Can you move?"

Sam's eyes must have crossed, because there were two worried Deans in front of him. Everything looped in pairs. Retching, he turned away. Dean guided him, held him up and out of it while he puked half-digested Sunkist and Fritos all over the place. Gross. He groaned, trying to get his body under control. Heavy coldness settled on his chest, pressing.

"Sorry," he said.

Double worried Deans frowned. "I can't carry you, man. You're going to have to help me a little."

Somehow he was on his feet, no time to talk. Every sliding step made a different part of his body hurt, but it was all really the same thing. Warm wetness trailed down his ribcage, under his shirt. Not snow. Definitely not snow. His left leg gave out. Dean grunted, struggling to compensate. His left leg started functioning again, and then his right leg went out. Dean bodily hauled him along. Sam was sorry. He didn't know what had happened. His right shoulder felt wrong. Numb and sharp. Breathing hurt, and the weight in his chest grew. The world went upside-down, and then snow fell in his face, up his nose.

"Oh my god, is he okay?" Graham asked. "He needs a doctor."

"He's fine. I need you to keep digging," Dean said, looking away from Sam. "No matter what happens around you, keep digging. We've got to end this fast."

Now that his world was at rest, Sam started to come back. He saw Dean peering down at him, thankfully back in the singular. It was impossible for much damage to have been inflicted in the matter of a minute, so the expression on his brother's face was confusing and scary. He shivered, teeth chattering. The coldness seemed to come from within, taking him over.

Dean brushed the hair out of Sam's eyes, which was so bizarre he could only blink.

"You back with me?" Dean asked.

"Yeah." Not really. God, it was cold. "What happened?"

"The spirit just played Graveyard Pinball with you. She got you when you stepped outside the circle."

Sam didn't remember crossing the salt line. He made to sit up, deciding he wasn't ready for that. Swallowing a moan, he clenched his teeth as pain ratcheted higher. Oh, something was not right with his shoulder, but he had to do what Dad had always tried to make him do his whole life – be stronger than he actually was.

They couldn't finish this with Dean preoccupied about him. Sam cleared his throat. He could do it. He could sit. He could keep the protective circle intact. If he failed at that, he could aim and he could pull a trigger. He'd have to. Now that they knew she was there, he'd be better prepared in an attack. Doubt and baffling sadness festered, threatening to pull him down.

"That deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball," Sam said thickly.

Dean snorted.

This time when Sam moved to sit up, he succeeded. He'd only been stunned for a second. Adrenaline fueled him, some internal strength he was amazed he had. "Give me my shotgun. I'm okay, just had the wind knocked out of me."

Dean didn't look for a second like he believed a word of it, but he stood and stepped away, coming back with the requested weapon.

Sam nodded, willing his arm not to shake from the solidity of it. Iciness seeped into the seat of his pants, curling through him like tendrils. He wanted nothing more than to give it another minute, but he struggled to his feet, using the sawed-off as a crutch. Dean stood near him, watching. Sam waved him off, stumbling only slightly when he was upright.

The deputy gave Sam an anxious look he ignored as he paced very, very slowly in an attempt to convince his body to do what his brain needed it to; there was a reason Sam always balked about what Dad thought he could do versus what he actually could. He shook all over, legs threatening to abandon him. He blinked away the falling snow, trying to clear his vision. It happened fast. Seemingly from nowhere, power set his muscles, the feeling unnatural. The pain that robbed him of breath subsided to a distant throb. It was almost as if he weren't really experiencing it. The wind shrieked and spun, picking up again. He understood the _coldcoldcold_ within him half a second before he realized that while Dean had gone after him, no one had watched the salt.

"Dean, she's…" he garbled out. His vocal chords were tight and wrong and wouldn't work.

Dean took a step toward him, expression alarmed. Then all hell broke loose.

The snow turned into a thick, intense tornado within their protective circle. Everything was white. Sam could see clearly, though he knew he shouldn't be able to, as if physical sight was irrelevant. He felt his arm lift, brandishing the shotgun with more energy than he had. He took several halting steps toward Graham, who cowed down in the hole completely unaware Sam was pointing a gun at his head. He fought. Sam battled with all he had to stop it, but his hands and fingers were not his own. He was so cold.

Inside him somehow, Caroline was pain, old and deep, rotting with horror and so much anger. She made him pull the trigger, but as he did something crashed into him, knocking him back several steps. The shot went into the air. Smoke, a loud boom, a shout of his name all rained down. Fire exploded in his shoulder, and the pain was a catalyst for control. Sam was the owner of his body again. He let go of the weapon, shaking and weak.

Dean stood in front of him, only a couple of arm lengths away, chest heaving.

Through the snow, Sam could see his brother's eyes were fraught with concern but his face was hard with determination. Sam nodded, switching his gaze to the gun in his brother's hands.

"Dean," he said, feeling Caroline coming back already. "You have to. It's okay."

It wasn't okay. A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched, evidence he was waging his own inner skirmish. Sam watched Dean aim at him, but turn his head slightly to speak to Graham, uttering words he could not hear.

Sam knew what he had to do. He took a fumbling step back, but stopped himself. If he crossed the line, she could pull out of him and be an even bigger danger to Dean and Graham. In him, she was limited to his physical capability but he was also protection. The pain faded; she was coming back. Sam never thought he'd want agony to continue, but he did. He needed the pain to stay himself.

He didn't get his wishes. Numbness seeped through him, control lost. She was using him like a puppet. Sam frantically wondered if this was what possession was like, if he'd remember any of it later. If he lived. His body took a step toward Dean, pulling the Taurus from his waistband.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, trying to reach through to him.

It didn't matter. Sam could hear Dean, but he couldn't change anything. His arm aimed. Inside himself, he was pain, fresh and new, blooming with horror and so much fear.

But then Dean _moved_ with extraordinary speed. Wrestling with Sam for the weapon, he succeeded in knocking it to the ground. They shuffled around, skirting the edges of salt. Now Sam wondered if he should try to throw himself out. The thought was academic. He could only go where the spirit moved him, and it moved him to fight his brother. A left hook snapped Sam's head back, but didn't knock him down. The blows Dean landed were incidental, careful; his goal was clearly to not cause real damage.

The spirit controlling Sam was not so hampered. He witnessed every blow to Dean's face. He couldn't stop the kick to his brother's already injured ribcage. He heard the crack as at least one rib gave way to the brutality. Saw the blood flowing from Dean's nose, and the reopened gash on his cheekbone. The Taurus wasn't the only handgun he had been armed with. The thing in him grabbed for it, and Sam could only watch the alarm on Dean's face when the Colt revolver was in his hand.

No. Sam would not let this happen. Focusing all of his mental energy, he forced his aim to be bad, pulling his arm back. It was the only victory he had, and it was too small. He couldn't keep the Colt from firing, the bullet from hitting. He could only watch as Dean cried out and crumpled scarily fast. The exertion from his internal battle left Sam unable to even try to go to his brother, who just lay there _unmoving._

A tremendous blow from behind smashed into his bad shoulder, sending him reeling in overwhelming pain. Sam jerked back into control yet again. Flopping to his knees, he fought now against the black spots filling his vision instead of the malevolent spirit. Graham was standing above him with a shovel raised, mouth moving as if he were saying something. Sam held up a hand to ward off another blow.

Oh god, Dean. He scrambled, half-crawling to his brother's side. He saw Dean moving finally, sitting up with a hand to his right side. The blood looked black and slick and there was so much of it. Sam felt the spirit again. Damnit, this had to end. He shifted, eyes lighting on a gap in the salt line. Giving Dean a regretful glance, he took the opportunity while he could, dragging himself out.

"Seal it," he said when he'd crossed over, hoping like hell Graham or Dean had the wherewithal to lock him and the spirit on the other side. "Seal it off."

Sam had a feeble grip on consciousness. His whole world was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and horrible, whole-body misery. Cold snow was quickly deadening the worst of his pain, and cold anguish from the spirit strongly clawed for dominance. He choked and coughed, as if he could expel it from him. Oh god, he'd shot Dean. Again. Dry heaving left him even weaker. He trembled like a leaf.

"Dean." Sam hadn't meant to say it, knowing Dean had to stay inside the circle to be safe but would come at his call, bullet wound or not.

"Jesus, Sammy." And there was Dean, laying down the salt like he should, then hobbling across it like he shouldn't, blood running down his side. "I don't know how else to get it out of you."

Gazing up with a squint, Sam saw the shotgun aimed at him and Dean backing away with interminable anguish on his face, putting space between them. Sam understood why. Hunched in pain both physical and emotional, Dean looked half-broken in the snow-filled, dim light.

"Don't." Sam knew if they waited, if Dean just dug and burned the corpse it was only a matter of time until he was free. He could hold out that long. "Wait."

Dean's face only twisted more, and Sam realized his brother had no way of knowing what he meant, or that he was even the one speaking. He nodded, getting his left hand under him to push himself up. It might not work. It might only make matters worse, but he understood Dean had to try. Closing his eyes, he felt the shot before he heard it. Flying back to the ground, salt pellets abraded his face, his arm and it felt like his chest had been kicked in. A mix of hot, fiery pain burned, encompassing every inch of his body. He grayed out, prevented from passing out only by a firm, but gentle, hand on his face.

He opened his eyes, seeing nothing. He wasn't sure; he couldn't tell if she was gone or not. Dean was there, leaning close to him, his lips moving but for a moment Sam couldn't decipher the words.

"Shit," was the first word Sam heard. "God, I'm sorry, Sammy. I didn't know what it would do to you before we could light her up. Is it gone?"

Sam had shot his brother with an actual bullet, and Dean was apologizing to _him_. It was so ridiculous he could only groan in pain. Dean's hand was on his face, and he struggled. Assessing himself, he felt…like absolute crap. But he also felt alone.

"Dean, I shot you," he said weakly, when all he meant to say was the spirit wasn't in him anymore.

"It wasn't you this time either, Sam." Dean winced, though, involuntarily reaching to press on the hole in his side. His face screwed up in pain. "It's through-and-through. Barely grazed me. We've gotta work on your aim."

Sam choked back a strained laugh, knowing his aim was just fine. There was no way a shot at that close range could be a simple through-and-through, even if Sam had managed to alter the trajectory. Dean was lying to him, but Sam let him. They had to move, fast, get back to safety and neither of them could. The night was momentarily calm, eerily quiet except for the sound of Graham digging and muttering to himself in hysterical, high tones. At least the guy was smart enough to keep going. Sam shivered, unable to feel much except pervasive cold. This time he was aware of shock. The sky was falling, a familiar sensation.

"Stay with me," Dean ordered. He coughed, turning away to spit on the ground. When he turned back to Sam, there was a dark spot at the corner of his lips. "This is like friggin' déjà vu. We've got to get back in there."

"Okay," Sam said, but instead of moving he worriedly reached for Dean's jacket and pushed it back. There was so much blood Sam couldn't tell where the actual bullet hole was. "Oh, Dean, _damnit_."

 

"Leave it." Dean shoved Sam's hand away, scowling. He pulled Sam up, gasping in pain before he snarled it into submission. "We don't have time for this."

If Dean could work past a gaping hole in his side and substantial blood loss, Sam could push away his pain and weakness. Sam saw he'd only made it two steps out of the protective circle, so it wasn't like they had far to go. He made his legs bear his weight, not wanting to burden his brother any more than he had to. They leaned on each other almost equally. Together they could reach the safety of the circle and help Graham finish this.

Instead, together their legs were cut out from under them by a force that felt physical, but wasn't. Losing his grip on Dean, Sam cried out in shocked pain as he hit the ground. But he couldn't hear himself. All he could hear was the angry screech of Caroline Sellke and his brother _screaming_.

"Dean," he gasped, prostrate in the snow for the millionth time that night.

Flipping onto his back, Sam searched for his brother but saw only bursts of red and black and white. He heard enough to know Dean was being thrown around somewhere to his left. He heard the sickening thuds. His own injuries not forgotten but deemed unimportant, Sam got to his hands and knees, moving slowly for the weapons cache. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't know if he could arm himself fast enough to save his brother.

The world spun, making his journey much more difficult than it should have been. Through the hum that seemed to be permanent in his ears, he heard the distinctive sound of metal against old wood. Sam couldn't hear Dean's shouts anymore, and that frightened him terribly.

"What should I do?" Graham asked when Sam got close to the grave. "Tell me what to do!"

"Break it open and get out of there," Sam panted, grabbing the can of lighter fluid instead of a weapon. He got to his knees, wavering on the edge of the grave. His arms wouldn't work. He couldn't hear Dean. "Douse the body with salt and accelerant. Burn it."

Graham looked at him wildly, apparently about four seconds away from a meltdown. Sweaty and covered in dirt from head to toe. But he did what was asked with shaky hands and without question. His eyes were huge with disbelief and trauma.

Sam could empathize. If the situation were different, he'd take the time to be grateful, or to feel sorry for the emotional distress. Graham was hardly a blip on his concern radar. _He couldn't hear Dean._ All around them, the snow swirled unnaturally. Caroline had given up beating the crap out of Dean to make one last-ditch effort to stop her demise, seemingly trying to break through the salt line.

She failed. Caroline Sellke's spirit was forced into rest as her body had been forced into death. The second Graham tossed a match into the grave, it whooshed into a ball of flames. The spirit screamed out of existence, leaving the night quiet except for the crackle of fire.

It always seemed so anticlimactic. The atmosphere was quickly filled with nothing but the thick smell of fuel, char and smoke. Everything glowed orange. The fucking snow even stopped. Sam breathed with difficulty; sharp hurt pierced him with every inhalation. He struggled to get to his feet. With the illumination to help him, Sam lurched forward to find his brother. A pit in his stomach grew, the fear he'd find Dean dead. He heard Graham call out.

"Dean," he said, spotting his brother's motionless form only a few feet away. They'd both spent too much time in this damned cemetery. "Dean!"

Sam collapsed to his knees next to Dean, feeling like he'd done this all before. He had. The end result had to be the same. Dean had to be alive. His right arm wouldn't function, uselessly hanging at his side. It was so heavy Sam tilted to the side as he reached for Dean's neck with his left hand. If he could will it, there would be a pulse. He felt proof that his brother's heart still beat.

"Oh god," Graham said. "Just hold on. It's okay, it's okay. Damnit. I'm calling it in."

Vaguely, Sam thought he should object. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He didn't know how it happened, but he was on the ground facing Dean. Wet and cold everywhere. The hum in his ears turned into static, white noise making it impossible to hear anything. As if it were sentient, the static crept from his ears to the edges of his vision. It swallowed him whole.


	20. Chapter 19

_A/N: This was the chapter that didn't want to get done. For a while, I thought someone up there or maybe **down there** was conspiring against me. I'll spare you the details. Let's just say it was a very long week. Plus, I find finishing stories is SO MUCH HARDER than starting them. _

_Thank you all for reading - I've really appreciated the support, both the vocal and silent. And thanks one last time for LdyAnne for the a__lpha and encouragement throughout, and Meg for the beta. Any errors that remain are mine and mine alone. _

_  
__**Before:**  
Sam collapsed to his knees next to Dean, feeling like he'd done this all before. He had. The end result had to be the same. Dean had to be alive. His right arm wouldn't function, uselessly hanging at his side. It was so heavy Sam tilted to the side as he reached for Dean's neck with his left hand. If he could will it, there would be a pulse. He felt proof that his brother's heart still beat._

"_Oh god," Graham said. "Just hold on. It's okay, it's okay. Damnit. I'm calling it in."_

_Vaguely, Sam thought he should object. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He didn't know how it happened, but he was on the ground facing Dean. Wet and cold everywhere. The hum in his ears turned into static, white noise making it impossible to hear anything. As if it were sentient, the static crept from his ears to the edges of his vision. It swallowed him whole._

**Sweet Caroline  
****Chapter 19**

It went without saying that Dean Winchester hated hospitals. He hated everything about them – the smells, the sounds, and the looks of sympathy and generic concern that came from random strangers. All of these things set his teeth on edge. Hospitals were giant institutions that were, it seemed to him, created as reminders that something bad could happen to anyone, anywhere and at any time. He also had a basic, profound fear instilled in him from a young age that emergency rooms and doctors meant questions, and questions meant trouble.

But what he truly hated most about hospitals was waking up in one with no real memory of getting there, and with no idea if his brother was dead or alive. It was a feeling of panic Dean was unable to shake for days, even with Sam nearby and presumably fine.

He couldn't remember much more than bits from that night in the cemetery, though both Sam and Deputy Graham had filled him in. When he tried to recall anything beyond taking a bullet, he got nothing but thin slices of time. Falling. Snow and cold. Warm blood on his side. A flash of nothing. Flying through the air, hitting, breaking, bleeding. Sam staring at him, bruised and horrified and pallid against the dark night sky. Deep red bells, loud sirens and strobe lights. Another flash of nothing. Whiteness. Fast motion. More unending white. Nothing. Staticky voices. Pain, hot and tearing. A grizzled, familiar face with brown eyes both worried and hard and out of place. A hand cupping the side of his face, palm too callused and touch too tender to be medical staff. White lights. Faces floating above him. Doctors and nurses.

Two hospital visits on one hunt. Dad would be pissed. His father had always taught him that if professional medical help was necessary to get it, but also to always get out as fast as possible. He'd also taught them how to deal with multiple kinds of injuries; post-hunt care was better done in private, because people didn't understand. They couldn't. They didn't want to, Dad had always said, and Dean had learned for himself how true that was. When he and Sam were little, he learned there were human monsters that worked for Child Protective Services. Though grown now and no longer in danger from that, the fear was latent.

By Dad's rule alone, Dean knew they'd already overstayed their welcome. Until last night, though, he hadn't even been able to take a piss all by himself. His ribs were still a mess and the hole in his side throbbed if he moved wrong, which included but was not limited to the simple act of breathing. Not that he had any intention of showing it, because he was through sticking around in this bed to humor Sam. Determined, he tossed the sheets aside and sat up. His feet had barely touched the cold floor when his great escape was foiled.

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"Getting out of here, Sam," Dean said, slumping his shoulders, putting pressure on his busted ribs and making him woozy. "It's past time. We can get out of this goddamned state and head somewhere warm for a change. We'll need a month of R&R, and I want to do it somewhere where the sun's shinin'."

He expected an argument. Sam didn't say a word, though, and Dean took a shaky step away from the bed. He felt much better than he had yesterday. He'd be all right. They'd both be all right. It wasn't like Sam was in much better shape than he was, after all. When Dean had woken up for good, after days of apparent touch-and-go fever and the threat of peritonitis, Sam hadn't been anywhere.

That was what had kept him awake at last, actually – fear that Sam was dead, because he knew, he _knew_ that despite their differences, Sam would be there for him if he could be. Dean's memories hadn't been so fragmented he didn't remember Sam getting thrown around even more than he had. Until he got a straight answer about Sam's condition, panic had fueled him. Even after that, he kept worrying. It was what he _did_, worrying about Sam, not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

"Where the hell do you think Graham stashed my pants, closet or drawer?" Dean grumbled. "He seems like he'd be all about closets."

He wasn't ungrateful for how surprisingly reliable an ally Graham had turned out to be. Graham was clearly freaked to hell about the whole thing, though that didn't stop him from helping when it counted. But Dean didn't like anyone going through his underwear no matter how Good Samaritan the act was. It was bad enough Graham had seen the Impala's trunk when he'd thought fast enough to stash the weapons. The underwear was too much.

"You should go get dressed, too. We have got to go before my nurse thinks she's gotta give me another sponge bath. I can't believe you got the only hot nurse in this place. Don't deny it. I've seen her head for your room. Those legs, man." Dean took a moment to envision said long, long legs. "Meanwhile, I've got freaking Brunhilda. There is no justice in the world."

Sam still didn't talk, standing in the doorway in a hospital robe and slippers, but Dean heard him let out a strange sound. Dean turned in time to see his brother's face, already grayish, go white. Under other circumstances, Dean would have been at his side in a flash; he was barely staying upright himself. And Sam was going to take a header. Dean didn't need a medical degree to know that would be a bad thing.

"Sam," he said. "Sit down, now."

The shoulder wound had reopened during the fight with the spirit, and Dean wasn't convinced the thing hadn't mucked Sam up inside while she had ridden around in his body. At the very least, the salt embedded in the existing injury had made Sam at risk for infection as well. According to scuttlebutt Dean had obtained from his fugly nurse, they'd initially been worried Sam had broken his scapula because of his difficulty breathing. That turned out to be a false alarm, but by the looks of him at this very second, Sam wasn't any more healed than Dean was. He was relieved when Sam entered the room and sank into the bedside chair, hunching over. Dean put his own pain aside, hobbling around the bed. It didn't matter. After a moment, some of the color returned to his brother's cheeks.

"You okay?"

Sam nodded, but he didn't look any better than Dean felt. Maybe they both needed a little more recuperation time. People weren't hassling them yet, thinking they were federal agents and all. That was a limited time offer they couldn't risk expiring, though. The longer they stayed, the more likely Graham would get in trouble for covering their asses as well, and Dean didn't want that on his conscience. They might have been better off if the late spring snowstorm hadn't kept them from being transported to a bigger facility.

"For Halloween," Sam said hoarsely, swallowing a couple of times, "Jess dressed like a sexy nurse."

Oh, shit, no wonder the kid looked awful. How was that for an unintentional kick to the 'nads?

"Sam, I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

Sam straightened, automatically wincing and reaching for his tightly wrapped and slinged shoulder. Swathed in bandages, Sam looked lopsided. He shook his head. "Of course you didn't. It's okay. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday, you know?"

Dean couldn't think of a thing he could say to make anything better, to get that bereft look off Sam's face. He wouldn't have been able to on a good day, but with his strength gone for the moment, he was even less helpful. He needed a second or two, and then he'd stop being a total pansy. He leaned on the hospital bed, sitting as straight as he could tolerate.

"I'll bet she looked really good, Sammy," he said after awhile.

"Yeah, she did." Sam gave him a bittersweet smile, which quickly turned into a frown. He stood, half reaching for Dean's shoulder before he thought better of it. "You really think you're ready to hit the road? We'll only get an hour before you pass out."

"Dude, please." Dean glared his best glare, defying Sam to argue. "I could do cartwheels right here, right now."

"Dean, you got shot at point blank range five days ago," Sam said, voice trembling. "_I_ shot you. Look at you, you can barely stand. You could have died, and I was the one who pulled the trigger."

Dean had been waiting for this conversation to happen, a dim hope that maybe it would be avoided a constant flicker inside. Apparently, he didn't even deserve this small mercy. His whole life was built around protecting Sam, so much so that a gigantic hole in his body was still somehow about Sam. He didn't resent that. Much.

"Yeah, by the way, is that going to be a trend? Because I gotta say you getting whammied by some evil thing and shooting me is already getting old," Dean said, meaning for it to be flip. Unfortunately, it sounded like accusation.

"Dean," Sam said, sounding like he was swallowing his tongue.

"That came out wrong." Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, disliking the lost expression on Sam's face as much as he'd hated the bereft one. _Emo Sam strikes again_, he thought. "Seriously, Sam, this time it wasn't even a little bit you. It wasn't like with Ellicott. I know that. I don't remember much, but I _do_ seem to recall you fighting to throw the damned spirit's aim off. If anything, that saved me. There's nothing to feel guilty about. It _wasn't_ _you_."

Sam glanced away, apparently unconvinced.

"Besides, I shot you back, remember? We're even." Like this was a frigging competition or something, the self-flagellation Olympics. "There's enough guilt to go around if we look for it hard enough. We don't have to talk about this now. Or ever."

Looking back at him, Sam didn't appear any less tortured. Dean decided to chalk it up to residual pain from the gaping hole in Sam's shoulder, though he knew that was wishful thinking. He just didn't have the energy to deal with it. For the moment, though, Sam nodded and Dean was granted a temporary reprieve. He'd have to see what he could do to extend that to forever. Some things were better left unspoken. He knew Sam hadn't meant to hurt him, and he sure as hell wouldn't voluntarily shoot Sam. It was all black and white.

"Okay, then. Let's go. Brunhilda's circling around outside with a sponge."

Dean stood, leg muscles threatening to betray how weak he was in spite of his bluff and bluster. No one could really take a bullet at close range and be ready for action in less than a week, just like a knock to the head meant feeling crappy for days. With the added complication of busted ribs, he was lucky he'd been raised too stubborn to give in to any of it while anyone was looking. He listed to the right, but he compensated. He was well versed in the art of pretending, and so much depended on looking the part here.

"Are you sure you're…" Sam started to say.

Dean turned to face him with a glare, making sure Sam knew this wasn't open for negotiation.

Sam held out his good hand in capitulation, not bothering to finish the sentiment. He just stood there like a kicked dog. The black eye had faded to gold and green hues, the swelling mostly gone. That left Sam with two eyes, which he was trying to make all dewy and little brotherish. Dean wasn't in the mood for that Jedi mind trick.

"That's not going to work either," Dean said dryly.

"Fine," Sam said, losing most of the pretense. He still looked worried. "But I'm driving."

He could give that to Sam. Dean might not like the idea of his brother behind the wheel, ever, but he was feeling weaker by the second. If they were going to crash in the snow, he'd rather it be Sam's fault than his. He was all right with the fact that made him a jerk. He didn't ever want to be responsible for damaging the car. Dad would kill him, for one thing. For another, that car was about the only thing Dean had to a home. He couldn't have a hand in even scratching it.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean agreed, hoping that would get Sam out of the room. He was suddenly feeling woozy and needed to sit or he'd be lying on the floor in three seconds.

"It's _Sam_," his brother said, shuffling past him. "Put some pants on, man. You have ugly knees, bowed legs and your gown's open in the back."

That would explain the cool draft. If he hadn't spent the last five days, three of them painfully aware, getting poked, prodded and touched in all the wrong ways, Dean might be embarrassed to be standing there with his ass exposed for anyone to see. Then again, maybe not. He was in excellent shape. Well, except the busted ribs and bullet hole.

"Jealousy is for girls," Dean called at his brother's retreating back. "I make this look good."

The second Sam was out of sight, Dean's legs threatened mutiny in the worst possible way. He moved to the bed as fast as he could, barely making it there without falling. Taking several shallow, controlled breaths helped, but working up to dressing and looking like he felt fine again was in his immediate future. It was damned hard work. He had no choice. Now that he'd sold Sam on leaving, he couldn't succumb to exhaustion for long. He closed his eyes, bracing himself up on his left arm and cradling his ribs with his right.

"Oh," someone said. "Sorry."

Dean opened one eye, squinting at the door to his room. Deputy Graham stood on the threshold, looking uncomfortable. As unaccountably good as the guy had been to him and Sam, Dean got the impression Graham would just as soon see them gone. His demeanor had changed, recognizable even in their casual acquaintance. Before, he'd thought of Graham as a rookie, small-town cop. Now, the way the deputy carried himself spoke of someone who'd seen _things_. He was haunted by them. Dean had known that feeling most of his life.

"Graham," he said. "You can come in."

"No, it's okay. I can tell you don't feel well."

"I feel fine. I actually need one last favor. Can you get my clothes for me?"

What the hell, the guy had already seen his boxers once.

"Why do you need your clothes?"

"We're leaving. We've outlasted our welcome."

"Oh." Graham twitched a little, but didn't look surprised. If anything, he looked relieved. "I suppose you guys can't stay in one place for too long, if you can help it. It's good, though. Willis is bound to start pressing me about what happ…about that night."

Just mentioning it made Graham look green around the gills.

"The supernatural isn't as exciting when you've seen it yourself, is it?" Dean asked gruffly.

"No," Graham said, nostrils flaring. He walked over to the closet and pulled out Dean's jeans, boots and shirts. He set them on the bed. "I thought it would be different. It was…actually it was _terrifying_. Don't take this the wrong way, but I'll be glad when you're gone. I just want to forget it all happened."

"No offense taken, man." Dean cautiously picked up his jeans, contemplating how in the hell he was going to get them on and how to get Graham gone so he could do it in private. "I hope you can forget. Sometimes I wish I could, too. And, hey, at least now if anything like this happens again, you know someone to call."

"Yeah. There's that." Graham awkwardly watched Dean struggle for a moment, then pulled the Impala's keys from his pocket before skittering back a few steps. "The car's in the north lot. I'm, uh, going to wait out in the hall. You want me to send in help?"

"God, no, don't do that," Dean said. Brunhilda would probably wrestle him back into bed just to get her hands on him again. He shuddered. "We're, uh, not checking out by the books."

"Right."

As Graham was leaving, it finally occurred to Dean to wonder why he'd stopped by in the first place.

"Graham, what were you coming to see me about, anyway?"

"I wasn't," Graham said, now looking everywhere but at Dean's bare legs, as if just becoming aware of them. "I brought someone else. She wanted to see your brother. Said he hadn't answered her calls and she had no idea what was going on, figuring I might be a good place to start."

Ah, the girl. Sam probably hadn't even seen his cell phone since that first disastrous attempt to put the spirit to rest. Dean nodded, but Graham had already ducked out of the room. Spurred by concern for Sam having to deal with this latest emotional baggage, Dean got himself dressed with relative ease. He didn't pass out or anything.

It took him nearly ten minutes.

By the time he limped out of the room, Dean saw his fully-dressed brother and Iris Green standing just outside of Sam's room. She smiled, said something and touched Sam's arm before heading his direction. Sam didn't look too bad, so maybe the angst-fest hadn't been so angsty after all. Small favors.

"Oh," Iris said when she saw Dean. She looked as ill at ease around him as Graham did. "I was just…I wanted to thank Sam, both of you, for finding out what happened to my friend, and for saving Gwen. I'm glad you'll both be okay."

"Thanks," he said. Dean didn't know her, didn't know what to say. "Uh."

"I should go."

"Okay." Dean pivoted as Iris walked around him, catching Graham's eye. He exchanged a nod, of thanks and good-bye, with the deputy. "Take care of yourselves."

Graham lifted a hand, giving a brief wave to Sam.

Dean turned back toward his brother, moving to Sam's side. He did see a hint of regret on Sam's face. If it wouldn't be the absolute worst idea in the world, he'd suggest sticking around if Sam needed to.

"You tell her everything?" he asked.

"No," Sam said. "Just that she didn't have to worry about what happened to her friend ever happening to anyone ever again. I don't think she wanted to know details."

"She'll be all right, Sammy."

"Yeah."

"You ready to hit the road?"

"Let's go," Sam said. "I'm getting tired."

Checking to make sure no one noticed their gimpy selves leaving, he and Sam headed for the elevator. All they had to do was look better than they felt. No big deal. Dean leaned unobtrusively on the handrail in the cab, still trying not to show his weakness.

"Keys, Dean," Sam said.

Sighing, Dean handed them over. He already knew it would be pointless to argue.

"So, where we going?" Dean asked.

"I was thinking about that. I think there's a fake chupacabra in sunny, snow-free Clovis, New Mexico we could fake hunt," Sam said as the elevator doors closed.


End file.
